Presto
by Cuckoo on a String
Summary: Banshees. Fey. Goggles. Just when the boys think they knew everything, they trip farther down the rabbit hole. (Vigorously incorporates Celtic mythology and folklore; Features an original character of nerdy proportions; Slow building Castiel/OC ship/quasi-ship) Rated for language and violence.
1. Arch 1: Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue  
**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter One: In Boston No One Can Hear You Scream (takes place between episodes 11 and 14 of season 6)**

Stacey Braddock was ready to quit. The office was horrible, the gossip was worse, and if her ex sent one more booty call, she was going to file for a restraining order. Enough was enough. This was the end. In the morning, she'd turn in her notice, pitch her cell, and buy a new iphone while she was job hunting in Miami. In the meantime, there was a slice of Boston crème pie calling her name – an appropriate farewell to the city.

Plate in hand, she slumped into her favorite chair and turned on the T.V. Nothing good was on. It was one of those nights. Maybe they had better cable in Florida. And maybe she was getting her hopes up too high.

In an hour the pie was gone and she'd given up all hope of finding a show that didn't insult her intelligence. She put the empty plate in the sink, and her thoughts turned to bed. Tomorrow would be a better day. She wouldn't stand for anything less.

Teeth brushed. Silky pjs. Lights out.

Outside, a woman was crying, wailing. Stacey wondered how bad the poor stranger's day had been. As bad as hers? Worse? The stranger probably couldn't escape her grief by going to Florida. She blinked. And suddenly there was a woman two feet in front of her.

Stacey opened her mouth to scream, but the intruder beat her to the punch. It was the worst sound Stacey had ever heard.

And then Stacey Braddock dropped dead.

O.O.O.

"I'm telling you, she just died."

"_Just died_ is not a cause of death, Mr. Fens," Sam said. He tapped a pen against his clipboard, struggling to drum up some patience.

The mortician flapped his jaw, biting chunks of air. "I don't know what to tell you. From what I can tell, her heart just stopped."

Dean glanced at his brother. "So… she… just died."

"That's what I said."

But Sam was determined to get a clear answer, or at least a shred of information to narrow their hunt. "Heart attack?"

"No." The mortician gestured helplessly at the body. "The heart was undamaged. No trauma."

"Poison?"

"No toxins in the blood work."

At that point, Dean intervened on the behalf of the poor mortician. "The man said no already." The brothers exchanged a quick glare, and then turned as one to the confused morgue worker.

With a smile, charming but fake, Sam thanked the man, and then they were on their way.

On their way across the parking lot, Sam asked, "So what do you think?"

"Well," Dean said. "No one dies from nothing."

"Obviously." Sam settled his fingers on the handle of the car door, but the busy thoughts spinning through his mind kept him hovering. "Have you heard of… anything like this before?"

Dean shrugged. "Nope."

"So…" Sam slid into the car. "Research?"

Just as he asked, a pair of blonds in short skirts strolled by. He felt the workload on his shoulders double.

Dean rolled his neck. "Research. Right."

.O.O.O.

The worst part of any hunt was the research. It wasn't the reading, it was all that time spent alone on his laptop while Dean helped the local bars pay off their mortgages that got to him. He researched the victims. He researched the monsters. Dean researched the local tail. It made Sam itch to pick a fight every time. There was no justice in the world, and now…

He'd come back without a soul, gone Rambo, gotten his soul back, slipped off the deep end, and now had his own personal Devil on his shoulder. Even his brother had changed. Or maybe he was the same as ever, and Sam had always given him too much credit. He wasn't just killing because he had to. He was killing because he considered himself judge, jury and executioner. But Dean's womanizing? Nothing had changed there.

Right on cue, Dean strolled through the door, take-out in hand.

"Find anything?"

Sam looked at the long list of Google results burning his eyes through the computer screen. "Lots. Just nothing useful. There was nothing special about this girl – crap job, crap apartment, crap boyfriend. And as for her killer… ghost, demon – people have stories about everything, but no hunters have ever written about a ghost or demon that kills without leaving any kind of sign."

Dean pulled a pair of beers from the bag. "Maybe the chick just dropped dead."

Of course. Because accidents happened and people just dropped dead. Maybe in the normal world. "Since when do things just happen?"

"Okay, okay." Dean held out a bottle, and Sam accepted with more enthusiasm than he wanted to acknowledge. "So she didn't die of natural causes." He took a swig. "Time to look for more unnatural causes."

The beer was deliciously cold. "Call Bobby?"

Dean bobbed a nod. "Call Bobby."

.O.O.O.

Bobby was a bust. "I can't make soup from a stone, idjiots," he said. "You've got to give me more to work with than that. Call me when you've got more intel." He hung up before Dean could so much as whine. Not that that stopped him.

"Well that was helpful."

"He can't have the answers every time, Dean. We'll keep looking."

Dean picked up the pay-per-view flier. Sam was settling in for a long night when someone screamed. It was a girl's, but more piercing than anything he'd heard before. It went straight to the softest parts of his brain. He covered his ears and lunged for the waste basket, sure he was going to throw up. He didn't think he could take another second of it. Then it stopped.

Across the room, Dean groaned and pushed himself up from the lake of vomit he'd spewed.

"Gross," Sam said.

"Ugh. This is why I hate opera. Sound like that came from next door to you?"

"Yeah."

"Well." Dean smiled. "Time for some voice lessons."

They burst into the next room, guns at the ready.

Two figures were there, one prone on the floor, the other bent over the first. It was all very normal – at least for the Winchesters – except for the fact that the second figure was wearing the mother of all goggles. For an instant, Sam actually thought they were blunt horns. He only realized he was wrong when the light from the open door gleamed over the lenses.

"Crap." It was a girl's voice. Dean squeezed off a shot, but the be-goggled boogey vanished before the bullet passed the barrel.

Sam dropped to the prone figure's side. It was another woman. He searched for a pulse, but there was nothing. Dead and gone, and not a mark on her. "Well." He settled back on his heels. "Guess it wasn't nothing that killed the girl in the morgue."

"Guess not." Dean holstered his gun and approached the victim. "Now we've got two bodies. Anything in common?"

The bloodless body staring blankly at the ceiling was unnerving. Blood was normal. Sudden, bloodless death was not. It was difficult to be patient with Dean, when he was struggling so hard to reign in his own dancing nerves. "I don't know, Dean. I just saw the girl. Give me some time."

"Yeah, sure, whatever." Peering around the room, Dean began tapping his gun. "No sulfer. Not a demon."

"It's not cold," Sam said. "Might not be a ghost."

"Think this is enough information for Bobby to get going with?"

"What information?" Sam asked. "That the killer's a screaming girl with goggles?"

Dean shrugged. "I dunno."

The second call to Bobby was much better received. Still full of gruff love, though.

"You idjits. A scream and a strange woman standing over a body? I don't even need a book for this one. Ever heard of a banshee?"

Dean and Sam glanced at each other over the phone. "As in," Dean said, "screaming like a…?"

"Bingo."

"Need a book to know how to kill one?" Sam asked.

They could almost hear the shrug over the phone. "Maybe. Honestly, boys, I've never met a hunter who went head to head with one."

"So…?" Dean raised his eyebrows and let the 'o' pucker his lips long after the sound had died. "Recommendations?"

"Barbeque, season with some salt, smack upside the head with a fire poker, stab with a silver knife. One of the usual methods might work. A banshee is a death omen. Most folks who meet one aren't breathing afterwards."

Sam sat back in his chair and rapped his pencil against the edge of the table. "Limited intel then."

"Very limited. You boys pull this off, I'll write a book about it."

"Just so long as you give credit where it's due."

Bobby snorted. "Happy hunting, boys." Then he hung up.

.O.O.O.

"They were both ending something."

Dean looked up from his burger and frowned at Sam, trying to place the sudden exclamation in some kind of context. "What?"

Shaking his head, Sam reached around to swing his laptop towards Dean. A short obituary for the woman killed the night before was already posted on the local newspaper's website. Middle aged and tow-headed, she wasn't unattractive, but he couldn't get the image of her dead, staring eyes out of his head. Gory deaths he could handle, but this was just weird. Freaky. It was like the ties had come loose and her soul just slipped out.

He cleared his throat. "So what was she ending, exactly?"

"The article says she was a local elementary school principle," Sam said.

"Doesn't sound all that strange," Dean said.

"No, but she decided to change careers just last week. It looks like she accepted a job offer from a local congressman, and she just turned in her official resignation as principle."

Without conscious effort, his eyebrows floated up towards his hair line. He didn't mean to be sarcastic, but he couldn't help the river of snark that flowed out of his mouth. "Bad choice. Everyone knows principles are hotter than political flunkies."

"Ha h," Sam said, utterly unimpressed. "Pull your brain out of your pants, Dean. This is serious."

He took a swig of beer. "So what about the other chick? You said they were both ending things."

"Well Stacey Braddock was ending just about everything: relationship, job, lease agreement. Her friend said she was talking about moving to Florida."

He tried to resist, but he couldn't stop the smile that spread over his face. "You might call that an ending, but it sounds like an awfully beautiful beginning to me. Florida. Beers and bikinis every day."

"Would you get serious?" Sam stabbed a finger at the computer screen. "The toll has already hit two, and we still have no idea how to track this thing."

Another gulp of beer. "But at least we know what the vics have in common now."

"Yeah," Sam said, "but how are we supposed to keep tabs on everyone in the greater Boston area who's made an important change lately? That would be every divorcee, retiring employee, and college graduate, just to name a few."

He had a point, Dean had to admit. There was no way they could cover all of their bases without losing a few dozen innocent habit-breakers. Maybe more. But there were two sides to every murder. "I think we should focus on something else."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "You mean like the screaming girl?"

"Yeah. If we can figure out who she is, then we can figure out what her gig is, you know?"

Sam sighed, and Dean could feel the forces of drama gathering around his baby brother. A queenly tantrum was in the air. "Yeah. Sure, Dean. All we need is her name. Or a good picture of her. Or a license number. Even her cell would work. Do you have any of those? Because I don't. I didn't even get a good look at her last night."

"Well…" Dean let his eyes wander out the window. The motel's little lobby was directly across the parking lot, the windows shielded by blinds. An idea struck, and he gave his baby brother his best grin. "Maybe we'll get lucky."

.O.O.O.

The clerk looked at Dean like the hunter had just confessed his actual profession. "Are you serious?"

"Of course," Dean said, chipper as a lark. "Don't I look serious."

Getting in on the act, Sam leaned forward with his do-gooder puppy eyes and said, "We saw it fall out of her pocket when she was getting in her car. We just want to make sure it gets back to her."

Still incredulous, the pimply kid behind the counter fingered the hundred dollar bill. "Well, thanks for turning it in. I'll make sure she gets it."

"Good! She hasn't checked out yet!" Dean winked at Sam. "Told you we might get lucky."

Sam pressed, forcing his eyes even wider. "We thought we could return it ourselves. We feel kinda responsible. If we'd been faster we could've waved her down before she left the parking lot."

The clerk snorted. "So, what, you want her room number or something? No way. You guys could be perverts."

He'd hoped to resolve this issue like a gentleman, but it looked like he would have to work it like a pimp. Sliding a second bill across the smooth laminate, he schooled his face into the most innocent expression he could muster. It was hard. Innocent? Who was he kidding? When he tried to look innocent, he just made himself look guilty as hell. "We'd really appreciate it, man. You see…" he glanced at Sam, then smirked at the clerk, "my brother here thought she was kinda cute, you know? He thinks this knight in shining armor stuff might score the fair lady's number."

The cash put the clerk's doubts to rest, and he smoothly slid the second bill into his pocket. "Girl with goggles, you said?"

"Yeah." Dean rested an elbow on the counter and tried to peek over as the boy flipped through the registry.

"I remember her." The clerk looked back smiling. "I thought she was cute, too. I have a thing for geeks, you know?"

Sam's puppy face had died, and the annoyance was starting to show so Dean rushed to close the deal. "Who doesn't? Room number?"

"Natasha Dee," the clerk said. "Room 114." He smiled one last time. "You gentlemen have a good evening."

Grabbing the first piece of cash from the counter, Dean gave an answering leer. "You, too."

He all but danced out of the reception office. Sam looked less than thrilled. "Is this the part where you say 'I told you so'?"

"Nope," Dean said. "That comes after we gank this screaming bitch." He was aware that he was swaggering. He must look awesome.

"Right." Sam shoved his hands in his pockets as they walked, eyes skipping along the room numbers. "If she's even in, that is."

But nothing could get Dean down at this point. He was right. Sam wasn't as fast on the uptake as he was, and there would be one less monster in t-minus five minutes. "If she isn't, we'll just wait. Sickboy said she hadn't checked out yet."

"Of course." It sounded like Sam was warming to the idea. Still, it would probably take his college-sized ego a while to get over the swelling caused by this little sting. Dean was so proud of himself.

Room 114 looked as innocuous as the rest of the blank white doors. Numbers, peep-hole, greasy doorknob that had been groped by a thousand sweaty palms. There was o reason it _couldn't_ be a monster's lair. Dean had seen flesh-eaters holed up in moldy caves and upper middle class suburbia. Nothing surprised him anymore. Not after Hell. Not after angels. Not after Pringles made pizza-flavored potato chips.

He waited impatiently while Sam knocked like a normal person. Sensing Dean's stare boring through his ear, Sam glanced over and shrugged. The knock was really just for show. Anyone could be watching. They needed to look like normal people, and normal people knocked. They didn't kick down doors and go in with guns blazing. The boys cast a glance over their shoulders to check for any civilian eyes, and found the parking lot empty. It was two in the afternoon. Most folks had already continued on their merry way, were out on business, or were sleeping off the last pains of some serious binge drinking.

All clear.

Sam gave Dean a nod and stepped back, reaching for the gun in the back of his jeans. Dean crouched in front of the lock and started fishing for his picks.

"Just a second!"

The boys froze. Miss Murder, it seemed, was in after all. Stashing the picks, Dean grabbed his own gun and kicked down the door. No muss, no fuss, just straight-up ass-kicking. He liked things better this way, anyhow.

Goggles girl was inside. She jumped about a foot in the air as her door came crashing in, and Dean had just enough time to aim before she winked out of existence.

Again.

Lowering his gun, he gave a petulant little stomp. "Dammit!"

Sam squeezed through the door beside him and into the room, eyes sweeping the rented space. It wasn't particularly tidy, and the chick seemed to have a serious arts and crafts addiction, but there was nothing useful. No jar full of souls or bone-littered altar.

Blinking and tilting his head back like a quizzical bird, Sam surveyed their find. "Wow. This is… different."

Dean shuddered. "Nerds. Why did it have to be nerds?"

Sam snorted, good humor restored. Nothing like Dean taking a tumble from his high horse to even the score again. "Easy, Indy."

"Whatever." Dean made his way over to the bed, which had been thoroughly stripped and reordered. It looked like a nest. While not a definite sign of creature activity, it was weird. Where was all the blood and guts? Dean was good at blood and guts. This was getting downright frustrating. He just wanted to shoot something and call it a day.

"You have got to be kidding me."

Dean perked up and left the collection of glass bottles by the room's lone window to see what Sam had discovered. Sam was on his knees, head shoved under the bed, and it took every ounce of Dean's self control not to give his baby brother a very literal kick in the ass.

"What'd you find?" he asked.

Sam surfaced from under the bed, gobs of grey dust caught in his hair. "Dude. Dean. You aren't going to believe this."

Against his will, Dean found himself interested once more in the case of the nerdy serial killer. "What?"

Sam shook his head. "You've got to see this." He held up the bed skirt, waiting while Dean took a knee and stooped to peer into the dustbunny cavern.

Beneath the bed was an arsenal. A long sword gleamed just a few inches from Dean's nose, within easy reach of anyone sleeping on the right side of the bed. Further in were bottles and bags of stuff he assumed were salt and holy water. Beside those was a jar of iron nails. There was more, but Dean quickly decided he'd seen enough. Returning to the world of daylight, he tried to find some kind of answer in Sam's expression, but his brother was just as stumped as he was, and they wound up staring at each other for several awkward moments before Sam finally cleared his throat.

"So." He twitched, the motion jerking his head in an involuntary, Castiel-like head cock. "A monster who hunts monsters?"

Dean grappled with the logic. It was hard to pin down, because there just wasn't any. "Nah." He said it in his best blasé tone, throwing in a generous shrug on the side. "Probably just paranoid. Monsters kill each other sometimes, right? Maybe she pissed off another bad guy."

Sam didn't look convinced. "Maybe."

It didn't take a college degree to see where Sam's train of thought was leading him – right off a cliff. Lots of professions claimed that their particular line of work left no room for doubt, but no other job held a candle to hunting. There was no room for doubt. Let doubt in, let a knife slip into your back. Surely Sam had learned that lesson with Ruby. Dean pointed at him and said, "No. I know what you're thinking and _no_. we found her standing over the _fresh_ body _seconds_ after the scream. No way we got this wrong. She's our monster. We off her, our job is done."

"Yeah, but, Dean…" Sam was wearing that mildly constipated face that meant moral overtones were about to infect the impending lecture. "We've been caught red handed lots of times for stuff we never did. Couldn't it happen to somebody else? Some other hunter?"

"Yeah? Well what the crap kind of hunter can teleport? Or vanish? Or whatever hoodoo thing she's doing?"

"I don't know, Dean, but…"

"Well I don't know either, Sam, and that's our problem. This chick can kill without leaving a mark, can apparently vanish, and we have no idea what to stab her with." Knocking aside some tweezers and twine from the desk, he began digging for some kind of identification. A photo I.D., spell book, puddle of ooze, anything. "Look around. Could be something useful in all this crap."

Softly, Sam said, "But we don't _know_."

"I do." Giving up on the desk, he returned to the bed and took out the sword. If she kept it so close at hand, it must be useful. Maybe it could even gut _her_. "Let's go. We've got a screamer to gank."

.O.O.O.

It was back to square one: in other words, searching for a predictable pattern behind the attacks. With the base they had, it would take hundreds of hunters to keep an eye on all the potential leads, so it was a matter of deduction and statistical analysis. College crap. As he walked with Sammy to the Impala, he let his mind drift back to the busty red-head with evident daddy issues in the local bar. She'd made some very interesting promises, and he wanted to see if her bite was as good as her bark. It had been a long time since he had a good fling, and he needed to convince himself that he could have just as much fun as he used to, that he wasn't heartbroken, that Lisa hadn't been as special as he thought she was. Special or not, it was over. Relationships didn't come back from the kind of hits they'd taken.

Fin.

It was a colossal load of shit, but maybe he could imagine it was all golden for a precious hour or two while Sam made dusty love to the local library. Librarians were more Dean's thing; not libraries.

He opened the door and felt a breeze rush by. Shivering, he pulled his jacket a little tighter. He glanced around surreptitiously for the usual breezy things – ghosts, angels, men who'd eaten too burgers – but the parking lot was still suffering from the midday doldrums. Slipping in beside Sam, he adjusted the mirror, checking for frost. Nothing. No ghosties then. There was no trench-coated angel in the backseat, either, so a feathery friend was out of the question. Someone must have had a hell of a burger, then.

Or it was just nature. Screw nature. Nothing was ever 'just' nature.

"Did you feel that?" he asked.

Sam blinked. "Feel what?"

Dean shrugged it off and tossed the shift to drive, stowing the edgy burble in his gut for later contemplation. "Nothing. Just being paranoid."

"Well, that's kind of our job."

"Truer words were never spoken."

After dropping Sam at the library, Dean caved to his desire and went back to the bar he'd swept for information the night before. It was within spitting distance of the motel, actually. He was sort of surprised he hadn't picked up any gossip. Goggles must not be a drinker.

The foxy red-head wasn't there, and nor were any other attractive women. At three in the afternoon, the bar-going populace consisted of weary truckers and old drunks with baggy skin and thin wallets. Dean was by far the hottest piece of ass there. Not that that was unusual or anything. He ordered a beer and turned his attention to the television mounted on the wall. On the screen, a local reporter was reporting the tragic death of 'A Local Heroine' from behind the sterile safety of an over-polished desk. Dean tried not to snort. Everyone spoke well of the dead – unless they really knew them. Thoughts and words, he'd learned, were usually permanently estranged. They kept things together legally for the kids – little baby Sanity and his big brother Decency – but everyone knew it was over.

He swallowed his beer without tasting it and struggled to wedge the pieces of the case together. Endings. Banshees. Goggles. Why did he even bother anymore?

He drank another bottle before he went to pick up Sam (who had discovered absolutely squat), and he realized something was wrong the second he swung through the driver's side door. There was something wrong with his baby. He didn't know what, but something was different, and anything different was _wrong_. He did a quick check for hex bags, but came up empty handed. Satisfied that whatever was wrong, it wouldn't kill him before he got to the library, he sped off to retrieve his second pair of eyes.

Sam took a step back towards the glass doors when he saw Dean come storming out of his car. But he didn't have a chance to launch a full-scale retreat before he was summoned.

"Sammy!"

Dean always thought the smoke coming out of angry characters' ears in cartoons was ridiculous. He'd done the full range of angry, and he'd never felt the steam whistles blow. But now he was smokin'. He was ready to kill something, but his baby needed his help. And he needed his baby brother to assist in sniffing out the problem.

"There's something wrong with baby."

"What?" Sam frowned as he came closer to the car, sweeping it with his eyes for obvious signs of damage. "Dean… I don't see anything…"

"Neither do I." He was angry, brows trying to crush together, eyes and nostrils flared. "But something's different. Help me find it."

Sam immediately raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'll help. Jeez, chill out, okay?"

"Chill out?" Dean looked at Sam like he'd started drinking demon blood again. "No, Sam. This is my car. This is my baby. There will be no 'chilling' until we _fix this_."

"I already said okay," Sam said as he sat in the open passenger's side. "Just give me a minute."

Dean paced as Sam scrutinized the passenger area, and quieted his own nerves by raking through the supplies in the back, imagining how good it would feel to cut off that screaming bitch's head, because if she was responsible for this, she was gonna _burn_.

"Dean, I think I've found something."

He rushed to Sam's side and contorted himself around to fit next to him in the open door. "What? What is it?"

"Look." Sam pointed to the joint of wall and roof, the seam of which was covered by a thin fabric lining. A little semi-circle had been cut out and re-stitched. Dean could just barely see it. The work was impeccable. But that didn't excuse the vandalism. Sewing someone up nicely after stealing their kidney didn't make it okay. This was not okay. This was the polar opposite of okay.

"What," he said, "did she do to my baby?"

"Hold on." Sam flicked out his pocket knife, and Dean had to look away while his brother cut out the careful stitches hiding the wound.

Unbound, the fabric fell free to reveal a horseshoe glued to the roof of the Impala.

"You have got to be shitting me."

.O.O.O.

"You aren't going to like this."

Dean looked up from the day's third bottle of beer and tried to glower away his feelings. "I already don't like this."

Apologetically, Sam glanced up from his laptop and slowly explained, "Every article and website I can find says the same thing, Dean. Horseshoes are for warding away fairies."

And… it was time for the fourth bottle of beer. "Well. You were right. I don't like this."

"But it doesn't make sense," Sam said, smacking a few more keys. "Why would a banshee put a fairy ward on our car?"

"Because she's a sadistic bitch, that's why."

"Stop drinking and think, Dean."

He tried, but the beer was perfectly chilled, and he couldn't waste the moment. He did try to think, though. His thoughts didn't lead him anywhere good. "You're back on the whole this-is-a-big-misunderstanding-and-Goggles-is-a-deserving-little-do-gooder thing, aren't you?"

Sam's eyes tracked away from Dean and around the room. "Well…"

"No, Sam. I have said this before, and I will say it again. No."

"But…"

"No."

Suddenly Sam's eyes fixed on something behind Dean. "Dude, behind you."

He grabbed for his gun and spun to face the threat, turning just in time to see… a closed door. The look he shot at Sam was unfriendly. "Not cool, man."

"No, Dean, seriously," Sam pointed, "look."

And he did. He looked up, to be precise. Hanging above the door was another horseshoe, this one held in place with a nail.

"Are we being haunted by My Little Pony or something?"

The lights flickered, and Dean heard the unmistakable sound of a woman crying just outside the door. Instinctively, he rushed to find the source of the noise, and the door was open before he'd even registered what he was doing.

There was no one there.

He turned to find Sam hovering at his shoulder, also drawn to the source of the wailing, and they shared a look of perturbed confusion. Dean closed the door, and Sam turned back towards his computer.

"Dean!"

He spun to see more than a whole lot of nothing this time. A woman in white was standing at the back of the room, face marred by tear tracks and oozy eyes. It looked like she hadn't slept in a year or a ten. Dean grabbed for his gun, but just as his fingers curled around the handle, the woman opened her mouth, and he forgot about everything except how much his ears hurt. It was the same scream as the night before, only much, _much_ worse. It was closer, and it was being directed straight at him this time. Last time they'd just been collateral damage. This time, they were dinner.

His knees cracked down on the floor, and he felt the room start spinning. Everything grew loose and soft, and he realized he was slipping away. Reality was fading. He knew what was at the other end of this road, though, and he wasn't going quietly.

But that _sound_.

Just as he was about to give up the ghost, something rolled out from under his bed. It popped up to its knees and knocked an arrow in the most old school bow Dean had ever seen. The arrow went back, and then the archer let it fly. It went straight into the banshee's open mouth. The sound died instantly, replaced by choked gagging. As Dean's vision sluggishly cleared, he realized that he knew the archer. It was Goggles.

She dropped the bow on the bed and snatched up the sword Dean had lifted from her room, which was propped by his headboard. In one clean stroke, she beheaded the gurgling monster. The head went rolling, and the body collapsed in a heap on the floor, but Goggles had lost interest, and was busily gathering up her stuff. With a quick swipe over Sam's bed sheets, the blade was clean. She tossed the bow on her back and headed towards the door, pausing just long enough to crouch by Dean's head. Across the room, Sam was trying to moan something. He probably wasn't trying to moan, actually – he was probably trying to speak – but what the world got was an unintelligible noise of profound pain.

Goggles held the sword up in his face. "Mine," she said. "Do not touch."

She started to rise again, but visions of his poor molested baby flashed through his mind, and he snatched at the closest thing within grabbing distance: Goggles's goggles. She yelped and jerked back, but his grip was strong, and the gear was lashed firmly to her head. In the background, Sam stumbled to his feet, and Goggles sent him a panicked look. With one mighty tug, she ripped away, leaving her goggles and a few strands of dark blond hair in Dean's grasp.

She made it out the door, and Dean watched Sam sway out after her, but he knew she was already long gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

But, hey. He examined the pimped-out goggles in his grip. At least he got a trophy.

**A/N: I'm new to the fandom, but deeply engaged and have caught up through, well, everything. I chose this point in the Supernatural story arch as the most fitting place to introduce this character, not because I haven't seen any more. Each chapter is supposed to be like a complete episode, so they will be relatively long, and I can't promise how often I'll be able to update because of that. **

**Reviews are kisses. Make like Crowley and strike a deal with me! I like feedback. Style suggestions/character pointers/etc. are welcome. Just don't tell me that I use sentence fragments. I worked for four years as an English tutor. There may be typos, but I know when I'm using a fragment and, yes, it really is supposed to be there. Like. This. This is also my first fic under this penname! I like new friends! Say****hello! I respond to all reviews personally. ****  
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	2. Arch 1: Chapter 2

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Two: Shamu the Great Hunter**

One week later and Dean was starting to obsess over the desecrator of the Impala.

"I want her, Sam," he said. "I want her drawn and quartered, bathed in holy water, and then decapitated. We can shrink her head and hang it from the rear-view mirror. Baby deserves that much."

Sam looked up from the beaten plastic menu he'd been examining, blown away, yet again, by his brother's stubborn refusal to see facts. "Dean," he said, making a serious effort to keep the conversation civilized, "she saved our lives."

"Yeah?" Dean slapped down his own menu and folded his arms over the table. "Well who's to say that wasn't just happenstance? She might've had a grudge match with that ugly screamer, and we just happened to be the handiest bait."

"If we were just bait then why did she try to ward our room and the Impala?"

Bad choice. The mere mention of the blasphemy done to his precious baby sent Dean into stiff-shouldered rigor. He would not be swayed. "As I've said. She's a sadistic bitch."

"Are you even listening to yourself anymore?"

The waitress approached, and the boys put their discussion on hold until the girl had taken their orders and moved along. Glinting in the bloody light of the setting sun, the goggles rested on the table between them, an innocent hostage in the war raging around them.

Dean leaned over the table. "She hurt my baby. She hid under the bed. Only boogie monsters hide under the bed. She is evil, Sam, and I'm gonna gank her if it's the last thing I do."

"_If_ she's evil then I'll certainly help with that," Sam said. "But the least we can do is hear her out. We don't even know _what_ she is yet."

Dean sniffed. "Already told you what she is, Sam."

"That's not what I meant and you know it."

The usual burger and salad arrived, and they set to eating, each pretending the other was far, far away. Civil table conversation was a long lost art among the Winchester clan. At moments like these, Sam missed college. The conversation might not have been civil at times, but at least it was conversation. Whatever it was, it was a far cry from the silent treatment.

"If you're so set against ganking Goggles," Dean said, jamming a fry into his maw, "why are you helping me hunt her?"

"Because we need to know what she is," Sam said. "If she's working for a demon, she could be trouble. If she's a hunter…" he ignored Dean's derisive scoff, "…she might have some useful information about creatures like that banshee. And, who knows, maybe we can give her a hand with something."

"The only way Goggles is getting my hand is if she hacks it off my rotting corpse."

Sam paused as a thought struck him. His brother's last comment hardly even registered. "Goggles."

"Yeah. Goggles. Not helpful."

Sam shook his head. "No, Dean, what you said, goggles." He waited a moment, but Dean wasn't following his train of thought. He pointed to the hostage. "We have her goggles."

"Dude. She is not Geek-erella. We can't just try the goggles on every girl in the kingdom until they fit the right girl."

"We don't have to." Now Sam was smiling. "Someone obviously put a lot of work into them. I'm sure they're valuable – or at least hard to replace. She'll want them back. We just have to let her know we have them."

Finally, the light above Dean's head blinked on. He looked at his trophy with new understanding. "And then we just wait for the Invisible Nerd to appear."

"Exactly."

Dean kicked back in his chair, scrutinizing their bait. "So… how do we get the word out, exactly?"

"Try a few summoning spells, carry them around, just try to draw some attention, I guess."

"There's a lot of attention to draw that isn't Goggles'."

"Nothing we can't deal with."

"True that."

.O.O.O.

First came the trap. There was no point spreading the bait before the board was set, and it was one doozy of a board. Since they weren't sure what they were going up against, they had to be ready for everything. The laid two devil's traps – one under the rug, one on the ceiling just inside the door. Salt lines blocked every entrance. Over the first bed, they spread the better part of their arsenal, shot-guns loaded and knives cleaned. A gallon of holy water rested on the night stand, and scattered around the room was every sigil they knew that wasn't also a ward – they wanted her to stay in, not away.

As a final touch, Dean set the goggles on the rug covering the first devil's trap. He rested his hands on his hips and turned to survey the room. "This," he jerked his arm to encompass all of their labor, "had better be worth it."

From his place on the weapons-free bed, Sam _hmmm_ed and spared a glance up from his book. "It will be."

Dean dropped into a gap between guns and tried to get comfortable on the other bed. "So, we start spreading the word tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Sam said, once more absorbed in his book. "We should start small, try just carrying the goggles around for a day or so. If that doesn't work, then we'll start summoning our own personal messenger service."

"You can carry the goggles," Dean said as his eyes drifted closed. "You're already a dork. I have an image to maintain."

"Sure you do," Sam drawled.

As he glanced over to berate his brother, Dean saw something very odd. The bed skirt on Sam's bed was moving. His reflexes took over, muscles growing taut in preparation for a spring. He signaled to Sam, who was already buried in his book. After a couple frantic waves, he caught Sam's eye, and he pointed at the place where the fabric had just moved. Sam leaned over to see what Dean was gesturing to, and Dean was improperly pleased at the way dear little Sammy blanched as the skirt around his bed moved yet again at the urging of an unseen hand. Dean reached for a gun, but Sam hissed. He looked Dean in the eye and gave his head a very slow, very meaningful shake. _Think about this_. It was like he could hear Sam's sanctimonious babble in his head.

Enough was enough. Dealing with a monster under the bed and his brother's Voice of Reason in his own skull was too much horror for one man. After this, he was getting drunk. Again. And he was never going to sleeping without checking under the bed, ever.

The foot of the bed was right by the devil's trap protecting the goggles. Dean wondered how long the bitch had been hiding under the bed. Did she already know about the trap?

Apparently not. Likely encouraged by the silence from the two hunters, the monster under the bed took her chance, and Dean watched as the bed skirt lifted to make room for more than just a peering eye or a groping hand. Three feet away, the goggles moved.

Dean lunged. He sailed over the bed like an awkward, boozy bird of prey. While he wasn't drunk at the moment, his dreams of foamy beers drank in victory over another creature's severed head were real enough to make him light-headed. The rapist of his beloved Impala was gonna get hers.

When he landed, he knew he'd hit pay dirt. Instead of the floor, he brought his full manly weight smashing down on something warm, soft and definitely alive. The something let out a pathetic croak (that sounded suspiciously like "_Shit_") as all the air was squashed from its lungs, and, in gradual flickers, a girl materialized underneath him, pinned face-down on the dirty motel carpet. As far as Dean knew, there was only one disappearing girl in the area, so this must be Goggles. The fact that aforementioned accessory was clamped in her grip was also a good sign.

Sam sprang up from bed and dropped down beside Dean, snatching a silver knife on his way.

"Not a demon," he said, kneeling. "The trap didn't even faze her." He glanced down the girl's body and snorted. "Her feet are still under the bed."

"Some big bad you are," Dean scoffed, keeping the vandal crushed beneath him. "You pervy little creep. Hiding under the bed? Seriously?"

Face buried in the carpet, Goggles tried to say something, but all the brothers got was, "_MmhhrmmmfrrrRR!"_

"Sorry?" Dean asked, just a little too pleased with the situation. "Couldn't make that out."

Sam gave him the Bitch Face, and with a mighty roll of his eyes, Dean shifted just enough for the thing to lift her head, gasp a breath, and try again.

"I _said_ that I _can't breathe_."

In response, Dean dropped a little more of his weight down on her back, savoring the mewling wheeze as she tried to drag in another breath.

"Dean," Sam chastised.

Another eye roll, and he lifted himself enough to let the monster continue sucking air. It was a damn waste.

"So," Sam said, testing the silver knife against his thumb. "Let's start simple. What are you?" Dean was pleased that, despite his refusal to outright gank the ho, Sam was still playing rough. This was an interrogation, not an afternoon chat.

On the floor, Goggles turned her face so her cheek was resting against the ugly dun carpet, letting the air whoosh in and out of her lungs like she'd never experienced anything more life affirming. "Start easy?" She groaned. "If you want to start easy, you should pick another question."

Dean squinted down at her, considering Hulk smashing her ass again, but Sam gave him the face again, and he resisted.

"Fine." Sam kept playing with the knife. "Why did you put up the horseshoes in the room and the Impala?"

"Uh… _duh_?" She tried to get her hands under her, but Sam brought the knife down by her face, and she immediately stilled. "You already said yourself. I was trying to keep the banshee away from you."

"Why?" Dean asked. So help him, if she didn't have a good reason for desecrating his baby, he'd suffocate her nice and slow, her last breaths filled with the stink of trucker feet and old fries. That carpet was _rancid_.

"Because I thought you might enjoy keeping your souls in your bodies."

Considering recent events, Dean decided he didn't like that answer.

"Don't squash me again!" Goggles yelped. "Clearly I know where you sleep, you jerk, and I swear if you kill me I'll haunt you."

"I think I can deal with a pissy ghost for a few nights after what you did to my car," Dean replied. "It's not like you can follow us when we leave, dumbass."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that…"

"Enough." Sam pressed the knife against her cheek. Dean wasn't pleased with the look growing on his face. "Dean, she's not a shifter. No reaction to the silver."

"Cut her with it to make sure," he grunted.

Sam obliged, slicing through her sleeve to open a narrow slit down her upper arm.

"Ow! Seriously?"

"Still no reaction."

"Okay," Dean said, fighting down his rising ire. He wanted to gank something, but he couldn't gank Goggles until they a) knew what the hell she was and b) knew she wasn't just some idiot kid who'd stumbled on something too big for her to handle. Judging by the curves he was lying on, though, she wasn't really much of a kid anymore. "You tell us what you are. You tell us what you were doing with that banshee. And you tell us why you _savaged my car_. Then we'll see if we can let you live to see another day, you freak."

The answers came fast. "It's complicated. I was hunting it. I was saving you. Can you please get your fat ass off me now?"

"No." Dean dropped his full weight on her for an instant just to prove his point. The air rushed out of her again, and he tried not to enjoy her pain. Who was he kidding? Right now, her pain was _beautiful_. "Why'd you assault my baby?"

"Because the banshee was friggin' _stalking_ you!" Goggles said, apparently at the end of her patience. "How many times do I have to say this? I was _trying_ to _protect you_."

"Yeah, well, we're kinda thick sometimes, you know?" Dean said. "Care to explain with a little more detail, Goggles?"

Growling, the girl beneath wriggled for her freedom, but Dean wasn't willing to give her an inch, and he had the mass to enforce his will.

"Just explain it to us," Sam prompted, far more nicely than Dean approved of, but it seemed to calm the frustrated _thing_ beneath him. "Help us understand."

"I don't know what kind of lives you guys lead," Goggles said – slowly, like she was afraid her words might fly back to smack her in the mouth, "but you must have ended a heck of a lot of crap, because that banshee was practically drooling once she caught sight of you. Banshees are traditionalists. I thought I could ward her away with the horseshoes."

"Because they're iron?" Sam asked. Dean could almost see the ex-legal student taking mental notes. Maybe Bobby would get enough material to write that book after all.

"Yes, but also because they're a traditional sign of awareness and respect for… things unseen."

"No need to be coy," Dean said. "I'm sure you've figured this out by now, but we're hunters. _Things unseen_ are on the daily menu."

"I'm sure," Goggles scoffed, offering a final feeble wiggle. Clearly having decided that Sam was the more pliable negotiator of the two, she looked at him as she asked, "Can you maybe get Shamu off me now? I can't feel my legs."

"Finish answering the question first," Dean said. "Why would a mark of respect keep the screamer away?"

"Ugh." Beneath him, Goggles fought to restore blood flow. "I am never getting off this freaking floor. As I said, banshees tend to be traditionalists. A lot of fey are, but you must have just been too appetizing for her to…"

"_Fey?_" Dean asked. "What the hell is a fey?"

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, Dean." Shifting on the balls of his feet, he adjusted his crouch and gave his brother an almost apologetic look. "Fey is another word for… fairy."

His reaction was immediate. He went stiff as a board, and he could feel his nostrils flare. "Fairies? As in Tinkerbell and UFOs?" His feelings for Goggles just reached a whole new level of ugly.

"According to the lore…"

"Oh, come on, you have to know that most human lore is shit," Goggles said. "Even the true stuff is layered underneath so much crap it would take a shovel and some serious baby wipes to make it shiny again. Fairies and fey are _not_ the same thing. Not from a hunting standpoint, anyway."

"Because you know all about hunting, _Goggles_," Dean scoffed.

"Yeah, actually. Fey hunting, anyway."

"You're right." Sam frowned. "This is going to take a while. Dean?" He nodded towards the room's one chair.

As much as he hated to give up his ability to cause pain by just _relaxing_, Dean grudgingly admitted that it would be smarter to get the monster bound up and have themselves a proper interrogation. He propped himself up and reached to grab the girl's arm. All those minutes of quiet compliance had lulled him into underestimating the little demon's speed, though. The second she had the space, she rolled out from under him and bounced to her feet, sprinting for the door.

"Not again!" Sam body slammed her into the door just as she was reaching to palm open the knob. Her fingers slipped over stainless steel, and she let out a pained yelp unlike the breathless profanities she'd muttered under Dean. Sam noticed. Keeping her pressed to the door, he grabbed her hand and twisted it around so that Dean could see the first degree burns blushing over her fingertips. "She's not human."

Dean tried not to look smug as he brushed himself off. "No shit? I figured that out when she turned invisible – the _first_ time."

"Shut-up," Sam said. He seized the back of the creature's shirt and settled his knife against her throat, dragging her back to where Dean was dusting off the chair.

Once she was seated, Dean twisted a length of iron chain around her while Sam clipped her hands and feet to the chair's arms and legs with handcuffs. Now that he had a better view, Dean couldn't help noticing how she was dressed. Almost every square inch of skin was covered. She wore long black leggings, a long-sleeved shirt, a scarf and arm warmers. Only her head and fingers were exposed. The angry burns from her brush with the doorknob probably explained that.

"You know," he said, glancing back at the door, "this would all make a lot more sense if that knob wasn't stainless steel."

"Yeah." Sam leaned back and slipped his arms into a knot across his chest. Only pure iron was supposed to burn ghosts and demons. Steel had never been a problem for them before. "You said 'human lore' earlier. So does that mean…?"

"That I'm not human?" Their prisoner was sitting almost impossibly still, like she was afraid the iron chains would slither up and bite her if she so much as twitched. "Yeah. Good on you. Would you like a glass of milk with your cookie?"

Dean cast an eye over the armory on the bed. So many ways to gank her, and now that they'd confirmed her monstrousness, it was just a matter of picking which one would be most satisfying.

Then Sam opened his big stupid mouth. "You said it was complicated. Start talking."

Traitor. He was being stupid. Dean might have to hit him, the only question was whether he would do it before or after ganking the evil bitch with the iron allergy. "Are you serious?" he demanded. "She just confessed that she's one of the bad guys. It's ganking time, dumbass."

"Actually I just said I wasn't human," Goggles said. "I never said I wasn't a good guy." She paused. "Or good girl, I suppose, although…" she shrugged, pulling her attention back to her captors. "Semantics."

"Sure…" Sam said. "Only one of the key building blocks of a language."

"I compensate with my exceptional lexicon," Goggles said.

A knife would be the best way to do it. He could take his time skinning her. "English, Goggles," Dean said.

"That was English, doofus."

Just as Dean was winding up for a smack-down, Sam nudged his arm and nodded toward the room's one mirror. They could see their prisoner in perfect profile. She looked normal. Well, that took a few beasties off the list of possibilities.

Goggles turned to see what they were examining and rolled her eyes so dramatically she actually rolled her head. "You can't see through my glamour with a mirror, guys. Sorry, but no peeking for you."

"Tell us what you are," Sam said. "Enough beating around the bush."

"Er," Goggles had the good grace to blush at her inhuman condition, and she finally shifted in her seat. "I'm maybe, sorta, just a little bit of a changeling."

"Gross."

Goggles looked offended. "What?"

"We've dealt with changelings before," Dean said. "You must be a really ugly bitch under that pretty face."

"Aw, you're sweet, but what the heck are you talking about?" She grabbed the arms of the chair and leaned forward as far as the chains would permit. "I'm the only changeling on Earth right now."

"I find that hard to believe."

A light dawned in the girl's eyes. "Oh. Are you talking about those ugly little mommy eaters? Yeah, gross, not what I'm talking about."

Sam shook his head. "Look, we've gone up against changelings before, and we know…"

"Dude. No. You don't know." Each word was emphasized with a sassy bob of the head, and Dean began to wonder whether the chick was just trying to bull shit her way out of the chair or if they'd stepped in something a lot smellier than they'd thought.

"So what do _you_ mean by 'changeling'?" he asked.

"Ah… semantics." Goggles spread her hands – at least, as far as she could spread them when they were cuffed to the chair. "Hello."

"Use your big words," Dean said, coaxing her like an infant. "We know you can spit out a straight answer."

The face she gave him was an insult in and of itself. "A changeling is a juvenile fey that hasn't been reclaimed yet by the Courts." When the hunters' faces remained blank, she grinned. "I'm sorry, are my words too big for you?"

"Eat me," Dean said.

"No thanks."

Trying to keep the conversation on a productive line of answers, Sam asked the obvious question. "What are the Courts?"

Rolling her shoulders, Goggles tried to dispel the mounting tension. But Dean wasn't having any of that. He doubted she would succeed, anyway. There was a reason he'd bound her with iron. If it burned on contact, it was probably making her nervous as hell to be wrapped in the stuff.

"The Courts are like countries, each governed by its own monarch."

"And, what?" Dean asked. "They serve as child services?"

"No," Goggles said, biting the word off in a sharp syllable. "Humans are child services. The fey can't be bothered with something so weak and powerless as an infant, so they dump them in cradles around the world, letting the little rug rats grow to maturity on someone else's watch."

Dean glanced at Sam and found his own reservation and horror written on his brother's face. Family was the core of their world. It was the core of the world for most people, actually. Would an entire race practice foster care just because they couldn't be bothered with diapers and teething rings? _Could_ they?

"Even monsters care about their kids," Dean said, voice coming out a little rougher with emotion than he would've liked. He cleared his throat, just to chase some of the gravel away. "We've seen it on lots of hunts. Why would these 'fey' just ship their kids off to human-school?"

"You seem to misunderstand," Goggles said. She had turned serious, the bite of sarcasm and tangled word play bleached from her speech. It made Dean uncomfortable. "The fey aren't monsters, or at least not in the sense that you're thinking."

"So," Sam raised his eyebrows, "they foist their kids on unsuspecting families to raise, don't give a shit about missing their children's first steps, and they aren't monsters?"

Goggles eyes flashed to the ceiling in a sharp roll. "Semantics. They will be the death of me." Her gaze came down to Sam's face. "Yes, in the sense that they're horrible awful people, they're definitely monsters. Why do you think I hunt the ugly bastards? But fey aren't purgatory-bound. They were created as grounds crew for the Earth – until mankind got too feisty between the sheets and populated the entire planet. As humans grew to trust technology over folklore and superstition, they fey decided that, as a society, they just weren't interested anymore. Over the centuries, the fey withdrew to a… different plane of existence, like heaven or hell, but accessible by more than just spirits of the dead. Nowadays there's the occasional hungry rogue who comes looking to wreak some havoc, but nearly all fey live in that other plane, Tir na nÓg."

"Doesn't explain why they drop their babies at the bus station," Dean said. There was something uncomfortably cold about the idea of ditching a kid because the brat was inconvenient. It was too human. Monsters were animals, driven by instinct and hunger. This was all too… calculated.

"Whatever they were," Goggles said, "they've lost sight of it. In Tir na nÓg, the Courts have become inbred battlegrounds for domestic power struggles. Trade and social classes are built on strength. Nothing is weaker or more helpless than a child. Their parents don't want them; children do nothing but drain their time, energy and their ability to please the Lord or Lady of their Court. So the child is sent away to the humans, who the fey see as little more than glorified animals. Some humans are stolen to serve as mates, some are food for carnivorous fey – such as our friend the banshee – a few are secretly chosen to rear fey changelings, and most are just useless cattle who mill around, unaware of the monsters hiding behind the innocent blue eyes of their neighbors' babies.

"When changelings come of age, they are made aware of their true heritage, and are forced to join a Court. It's ugly. Lords and Ladies usually threaten rather than woo newcomers to their Courts. Usually those threats are enforced. And once a changeling joins a Court they have no rights. A fey only gains rights and freedom as he or she gains the strength to defend them." She stopped to glance between the two hunters. "I'm sure you can see why I'm not so chuffed about joining this shin-dig."

"Just because you don't want to become their butt-buddy doesn't mean you automatically have a burning desire to kill them all," Dean said.

With a groan, Goggles rolled her head around to face the older Winchester, the snark back in her expression. "This coming from Shamu, the great hunter. Think about it, brainiac."

Sam had moved to lean against the room's dresser during Goggle's explanation, head bowed as he sorted and analyzed the new claims. Now he looked up, and Dean knew the second he saw his brother's face that ganking was officially off the table. "It's self defense." He looked at Dean, who was leveling the mother of all frowns at him, and tried to explain himself. "Look at her. She's definitely an adult. I'm sure that means she's of age. But she's still here. Those ugly threats?" He nodded at her. "She's gotten some. She's hunting to take out any fey the Courts might send after her."

Goggles twitched a nod. "More or less. I won't lie. There's some revenge in there, too. I decided I'd rather break a few heads than kiss and make up."

"Why? What'd they do to you? You get propositioned by a fat ass Lord or something?" Dean stoutly refused to admit defeat. Just because ganking was out of the question didn't necessarily mean he couldn't prod her into a fight.

"Or something. You going to tell me why you started hunting?"

Dean didn't deign to answer her.

"There you go. I want to discuss my history as much as you want to discuss yours."

Even though Dean was still hung up over the Impala episode, Sam was getting excited. This was new information, stuff that could save lives and help hunters. "So why have we never run into fey before? Why have we never heard of them if they're so old?"

"I don't know." Goggles was moving less. Either she'd tired herself out, or the iron was having an effect on her. "Fey are sneaky, and like I said, they aren't around so much anymore. They're as diverse as monsters are, so it's possible you've run into some and just mistaken them for something else. And it's pretty easy for us to hide, in case you haven't noticed."

"Invisibility," Sam said. "Right."

"Right. Now, can I get out of this chair, please?"

Dean answered before his brother could say something stupid. "No."

She threw her head back with a bark of frustration. "Dude, seriously. This iron is making me queasy. I'm not above puking on your shoes. Especially yours, Shamu."

"The iron," Sam said, his face lighting up as he remembered a question. "Why do mixed iron alloys bother you? I'm assuming it's not just stainless steel."

"It's not just stainless steel," Goggles confirmed. "They fey have very little in common with monsters, so the reasons why we react to iron are very different. To us, it's like acid – or poison. Think of it like this: if you stir arsenic into a cup of orange juice, it's still poison, even though the juice isn't. The drink will still kill you."

"What I want to know," Dean said, running his fingers over a shotgun, "is why you didn't end up press-ganged like the other changelings you talked about."

"I told you, it's…"

"Complicated," the brothers chorused.

"Damn, I'm starting to hate that word," Dean said.

Lightheaded from the iron, the girl laughed. "I hate living it."

"Looks like you've finally found something you agree on, then," said Sam.

"Well, now that we all understand each other… can I take my goggles and get out of this chair?"

Sam's gaze dropped to the floor.

"Yeah, that's a definite no," Dean said.

"Fine." Goggles blinked out of existence.

Both Winchesters jumped to attention. Dean was already reaching for his gun as he realized the handcuffs were hovering in the air, still locked around invisible limbs.

"She's still… there… right?" Sam asked.

"Um…" Dean sidled cautiously over to the chair. With a single finger, he reached for the place Goggle's head should be and poked.

"Ow! That's my eye, you idiot."

Still there, then, just invisible. "I'm not sorry."

"Of course not, whales don't have consciences."

Since he'd apparently decided to let the freak live, Sam tried to make the conversation more civil. "So what's your name?" he asked.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," the invisible hostage chirped.

"I'm Sam. This is my brother Dean."

"Sam!"

"What?"

Dean grabbed him by the front of his shirt. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Look," Sam argued, "we can't just kill her. We have to figure out who she is now, not just what she is. Then we have to verify her story."

"We don't have to verify anything," Dean said. "She's just another monster, Sam. We don't work with them. We don't make deals with them. They always screw us in the end. Haven't you learned that yet?"

"I'm not saying we should trust her, I'm just…"

"Nadine."

Their argument died, and the boys glanced back towards the invisible figure in the chair.

"My name," she clarified. "It's Nadine. Not Goggles."

Awkwardly, with Dean's fist still bunched in his shirt, Sam cleared his throat and said, "Nice to meet you, Nadine."

"Well, now that I've kept my word…" The cuffs dropped.

Dean grabbed at his pocket and realized that the keys were gone. When he poked her…

Goggles – Nadine – appeared at the door with her hand on the knob, her sleeves tugged down over her exposed fingers. Dangling from her other hand, which also had the sleeve tugged low over the fingers, were the keys to the handcuffs. "Goodnight."

Of course they ran out after her, but she'd turned Invisible Girl again, and there was no sign of her in the parking lot or anywhere else around the shoddy motel. They'd lost her the second she escaped the handcuffs.

Dean stormed back into the room and sent the empty chair flying with a kick.

"What the hell!"

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed (MB and DevonF) or added this story! I'm having great fun. I forgot to mention in the first chapter, but the name of this fic is actually a musical reference. Kudos if you know what it is.**

**Happy New Year!  
**


	3. Arch 1: Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Yeah, no, I just own my original characters.  
**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Three: The Wooing of Dean Winchester**

Nadine didn't mean to startle Sam Winchester, but she didn't have much of a choice.

She'd been following the brothers for five hours before they finally parted ways for more than two minutes. They'd just finished a case, and they celebrated by crashing in their latest motel room. When they opened the door, she ducked in – invisible – and waited in the corner for one of them to leave. Getting Sam on his own was her only option. She could be an angel with great big feathery wings and Dean would still off her. The only chance was to get Sam on her side before confronting Big Brother. He was her in. He'd be willing to hear her out, and once she was finished he'd investigate, even if he didn't trust her.

At long last, Dean left for the bar, and Sam drowsily elected to stay in. Nadine waited just long enough for the Impala's grumbling to fade away before she strolled over to the bed and turned visible.

"Hi, Sam."

"Holy sh -…"

Nadine tried to tell herself that it was very naughty to be so amused by the massive guy's floundering, but she couldn't help herself. It was just too good. As a hunter, he must have the senses of an owl. It had probably been a good long while before someone caught him so unawares.

…When he got his arms and legs wheeling like that he took up almost half the room. And his _face_…

She cleared her throat and tried to chase away the smile flickering on her lips. "Sorry to interrupt your beauty sleep."

Panting, Sam surfaced on the other side the bed (the bed from which he'd fallen during his panic attack), and glared at her as he pulled out a gun from the back of his jeans.

"Do you sleep with that?" Nadine asked. "Can't be comfortable."

"Maybe not," Sam said, steadying his aim, "but it's better than the alternative."

"Locking your door?"

"Facing an enemy unarmed."

"Oh come on!" Nadine stomped like a child, swinging her arms down to clap against her sides. Sam followed the motion, and Nadine could see the moment it registered that she wasn't armed. Score. "What happened to defending me, you traitor?"

"Dean isn't here," he said. "It's just me, my gun, and the girl who magically appeared at my bedside." He canted his head. "How long have you been in here, anyway?"

"Do you really wanna know?"

"Probably not."

The gun was wavering, and, trying to make the most of the moment, Nadine lifted her hands in the classic 'I surrender' pose as she continued. "Look, keep the gun if you want. If it makes you feel better, then whatever. I don't care. Just listen, alright?"

Warily, Sam nodded. "Alright. So talk."

Lowering her hands to half-mast, Nadine cast a last look at the gun before she got down to business.

"I need your help."

.O.O.O.

"Dean, I really don't think she's lying."

"Oh? You don't think she's lying. Well, now I have all _kinds_ of confidence in her. Let's invite her over to Bobby's for Sunday dinner."

"Dean." Sam stopped, halting his brother with a hand on his shoulder. "Just hear her out, okay? We don't have to do anything we don't want to."

"It's still a deal, Sammy. Deals never end well. Never."

"This time is different," Sam said, trying to drag some logic into the conversation. "We're not chasing after her looking to sell our souls. She's asking us to do a job in exchange for a favor of _our_ choosing. This time, we're the ones with all the cards." Dean still didn't look convinced, but the fiercest curl at the corner of his mouth had smoothed out, and Sam pressed the offensive. "All you have to do is listen. Please."

His shoulders slumped, and Sam read the clear signs of victory. Almost gleefully, he slapped enough bills to cover their meal and a generous tip on the table before he moved to slide out of the booth. Dean was just a second behind him, though his face was definitely less gleeful. They left the diner – so like every other cheap roadside diner they'd hit over the years – and Sam led them back towards the hotel. Dean's face began to darken again as he realized just where they'd be having this little heart-to-heart (and the likelihood that Goggles had been hiding under his bed again), but Sam sent him a look of pleading reminiscent of a small kicked cocker spaniel pup, and his brother stifled his protest.

As expected, Nadine was waiting for them, propped delicately on the edge of the dresser, burnishing her goggles with her sleeve. She looked up as they entered, and Sam made a point of leaving the door open. If things went south, she'd have an easy exit. The last thing any of them needed was for Dean to do something stupid he'd regret later.

She wasn't dressed in the urban ninja gear like she'd been last time. Dean was keenly aware of the monster perched on his furniture was a girl, and she seemed proud of the fact. Her dress was yellow, vintage, and fairly frilly. Her leggings were patterned with roses, her hair was done up in curls, and her shoes had three inch heels. Too cute for his taste, but definitely feminine, and it made him hate her all over again, and in a whole new way. She was like Lilith or the crossroads demon, flirty, charming, the honey in her own trap. His trust had hit an all time low.

She was the one to break the ice. "Hi." She waited for him to reciprocate, and when he didn't she took a moment to cross her legs. "Long time no see."

Dean folded his arms, assuming his most macho stance. "Bull."

"Well," she waved her hand, "I saw you, but you didn't see me, so technically…"

"Whatever." Dean's tone was brusque. This wasn't the time for games and 'semantics'. It was fact telling time, and her window of opportunity to sway him to the dark side would be short. "Sam says you have a job for us."

"Yes. I do, as a matter of fact."

"Why."

Nadine blinked and looked at Sam. Disappointment wrinkled around her eyes. "You didn't tell him?"

Before Sam could defend himself, Dean resumed control of the conversation. "He told me. But I want to hear it from you." He spread his hand s in a cutting motion. "Straight from the horse's mouth. I only buy direct from the vendor."

"Dean…" Everything Sam didn't say popped up in the back of Dean's mind as subtext: _We're wasting time; Why don't you trust me?; I already told you she's not lying; Do we really have time for this?_ But Dean didn't dive into a pool he couldn't see the bottom of. He didn't trust Goggles, probably never would, but he was pretty sure he'd be able to smell a load of crap if she dropped it, so he wanted to be present for the actual dumping. Second hand crap was harder to verify.

"It's fine." Curt. Sharp. Definitively not pleased. It made Dean happy. "There's a Lady, a fey noble, circling a boy in Pryston Indiana. She needs disposing of before she grabs the kid and goes back underground. Once he's gone, he's not coming back."

Alright. So far so good. No shit yet. But… "Why can't you deal with it? You didn't have any qualms taking out that banshee."

"It's complicated."

"Gonna need a little more than that, Goggles. You're asking us to risk our necks on your business. We need some concrete reasons, here."

He could already tell by her face that he wasn't getting the kind of facts he was fishing for. The doors had closed. "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies." She shrugged. "Besides, you already have a concrete reason. He's six, brown haired with blue eyes and a gap-toothed smile."

"What's his name?" Sam asked.

Dean spared his brother a glare, but he didn't even acknowledge it.

"Jacob Tanner." She reached around and picked up a folder, which she then proffered to Sam. Dean zipped forward to snag it first, just to see the irritation on her face. There was only the barest flicker of annoyance before she managed to stifle it, but he saw, and she clearly knew he did. His grin was almost reflexive.

Nadine tried to puff a strand of hair out of her face and pretended Dean didn't exist. "Everything you need is in there."

"A million bucks?"

"Oh, shut-up, Shamu."

"How's your back, Goggles?" Was he bantering with her? Was that what this was?

"There's a bruise the size of Montana on my back, and I don't think my boobs will ever be the same, thanks."

Was she bantering back? What the hell.

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean shared a look with Goggles as they caught themselves in the act of borderline friendliness. It was uncomfortable.

"Back to business?" Sam asked.

"Right." Nadine popped off the dresser and started towards the door. "There isn't much time. So you need to get on the road tonight. The Lady has already moved into the final stages of her suit, and soon she'll make her move…"

"Who said we agreed?"

With those four little words, Dean managed to freeze the freaky little fey. It was like time stopped. She just hovered in the doorway, stiff as a corpse while Sammy gave him the stink eye. Seriously, though, they hadn't agreed. She'd just assumed that just because he was willing to snark with her meant he was willing to be her bitch. If Crowley couldn't get them to stay under his thumb, there was no way this slip of a monster was.

Sure, a kid needed help. He wasn't heartless. But that didn't mean had to make it easy for her. He wanted her to remember who was in charge.

"Sam mentioned that this was a deal."

She turned around, face stony, and Dean could just smell the sweat.

"Yes," she said. "I did offer a favor in exchange for all this."

Dean shrugged and held out his hands, lifting his eyebrows in an open-ended question. "So that's good for…?"

"Whatever you want," Nadine snapped. "If there's something you need, I can make it for you. If you need my help with a monster, I'll give you a hand. If you need me to get a beer, that works, too. It can be anything, big or small, but only one favor, and only one that's within my power. Wish for the sun and you're on your own."

Dean only held back his smile for a second. Then he let it eat his face. "So you'd be our little…"

"Dean," Sam said, "grow up. Like I said. This is a fair deal. We have the upper hand. Now can we just shake hands on this and hit the road?"

"Sure, sure." Dean was liking this arrangement. They saved a kid and got a leash on another monster just for kicks. He wondered if he could use the favor to tell her to off herself. Sam probably wouldn't let him. "So, do we have to kiss, or what?"

"No," Nadine said. "A verbal agreement works fine. Like this." She drew herself up, and her tone grew formal. "I swear to give the Winchester brothers one favor in exchange for their assistance on the mission to protect Jacob Tanner. There. All done. Your turn."

"We – ah…" Sam glanced at Dean, who only offered a shrug. "We the Winchester brothers agree to help – uh – Nadine on her mission to protect Jacob Tanner in exchange for one favor… Is that it?"

"That's all, folks! Now, as I was saying, it's time to go."

There were so many creative implementations for that favor…

.O.O.O.

"She's kidnapping this kid for her harem? Holy crap, that's twisted. And gross. Really gross." Dean shuddered. "I feel like I need a shower now."

Sam continued his examination of the folder Nadine had given them as he answered. "Guess that's why she hunts them."

Deciding to ignore his brother and his damned sensibilities, Dean looked up at the modest yellow house across the street. It looked like an average middle class residence, and it had all the awful cheer of any yellow house in bright sunlight. The only things missing were a pretty wife in a sundress with a garden hose and a few noisy tots running over the carefully manicured lawn. It made his skin crawl, honestly, all that careful normalcy. Didn't these people have lives?

With a snap of paper, Sam closed the folder and joined his brother squinting up at the happy house. "Well, Nadine was thorough. She even gave us an in. Some high school kids disappeared a few months back, and she says the FBI did a shoddy job canvassing the area. Mr. Tanner works as a teacher at the missing kids' school, and one of the girls who vanished worked as Jacob's babysitter. We go in as FBI, claiming that we're looking for some fresh leads, interview the family to see what they can tell us."

"You know she probably killed those kids herself, right?"

"No, Dean," Sam said, almost petulantly. "They were killed by a vampire coven. The hunter who worked the job is in Dad's journal. She included all the details in here," he waved the folder, "and, yes, I've already verified them."

"And this doesn't strike you as a little too thorough?"

"No, Dean," Sam said, "this strikes me as a hunter's work. We'd be this thorough if we were handing an assignment off to someone else."

"Yeah," Dean said, "but we _wouldn't_ hand a case over to someone else."

"I don't know, Dean." Running his fingers along the edge of the creamy paper, Sam furrowed his brow. "There are some places we can't go back to, where we've drawn too much attention to ourselves, or where key witnesses might recognize us."

"She's not us, Sam." Dean refused to look at his brother, even when he turned those furrowed brows in his direction. "I'm not saying we should drop everything and gank her, but I'm still not sold on her whole hunter story. There's just too much we don't know."

"Well." Sam looked back at the house. "Maybe we'll learn something here." Rolling his shoulders to loosen the tight fabric over his shoulders, he peeked over at Dean. "Ready?"

With a grunt, he shoved himself away from the car. "Yeah."

.O.O.O.

Everything went as planned. Mrs. Tanner – younger and prettier than Dean had expected – opened the door for them and batted nary a lash at their fake ID's.

"Come in and have a seat!" The room she led them to was warm and bright, crammed with all the modern comforts of America's suburbia. Lined along the walls and shelves were dozens of framed photos – some of a younger Mrs. Tanner, some of a younger Mr. Tanner, some of a young boy Dean assumed was Jacob, and quite a few without any familiar faces at all… and one with a very familiar face.

Sam, having also noticed the in-home gallery, cleared his throat and asked with arched eyebrows, "You must have met Mr. Tanner when you were very young." He nodded at the photos. "How old is your son?"

Mrs. Tanner swiveled in her chair to see the pictures he indicated and snorted. "We only met three years ago."

It wasn't the biggest reveal of a century, but it was enough to remind Dean that his answers were held by the woman in the overstuffed loveseat across from them and not in the gallery beyond. The best he could hope to glean from the photos were clues. Why take piecemeal snapshots when he could have the whole story?

"Rick had Jacob with his first wife, but she'd passed a year or so before we met." She grinned and bit her bottom lip. "I got my first kid along with my husband. Win, win. I love him, and I make good pancakes, so he likes me, too."

"Must've surprised your friends," Dean said, aiming for chipper. Sam's warning look came too late. Of course. His chipper always translated as creepy. What could he say? He just wasn't a chipper sort of person. "You know. Marrying a guy with a kid when you were, what, still in college?"

A shadow passed behind Mrs. Tanner's eyes, and she immediately tried to play it off with a toss of her head. "Nah. Didn't have many friends then. Was too busy in college."

"And you didn't keep in touch with anyone from high school?" Sam asked. Mrs. Tanner stiffened, and he waved at group shot on the wall crammed with teenagers sporting _Barry High Wolverines_ t-shirts. "Sorry if I overstepped my bounds, but it looks like you had plenty of friends back then."

"I did," Mrs. Tanner said, softly. Her fingers plucked at a loose thread in her sleeve, and her eyes roamed the carpet. "But there was an accident. Nobody was the same after that. None of us wanted to remember, so we just forgot… everything… even each other."

Sam leaned forward and, in his most sympathetic voice, asked, "What happened?"

The thread slipped through Mrs. Tanner's fingers, and she dragged her eyes away from the carpet. Pointing at the very same face Dean had noticed earlier, she told her story. "That's Nadine Sheldon. I knew her since we were both kids. She moved here as a foster kid a year or two before junior high and we hit it off. Pretty inseparable after that. Anyway, we started high school and met some more oddballs, and we made a clique for ourselves." She laughed. "We were so uncool. But Nadine was clever, and she kept us together through junior year. Then some guys we knew disappeared down by the lake. It was like Nadine became a different person overnight." Worrying her lip with her teeth, she rolled her shoulders, like she was trying to shrug off a chill. "All of a sudden she got real secretive, almost reclusive. I think she went looking for the boys, but she didn't find them. The police did. A month after they disappeared, their bodies turned up by the shore. It was uh, it was pretty awful. Gossip said it was a cult killing or something. Everybody took it hard. I mean, how could you _not_? But Nadine took it _really_ bad, like it was her fault. She closed herself off from everybody, even from me, and then the next thing we knew, the principle was calling a general assembly to tell us that Nadine had driven her car off a bridge…" This time a full-bodied shiver rattled down her spine, and Dean watched her blank eyes glisten at the memory. "I never believed it was suicide. Now, I don't know. People do stupid things. Even good people."

Dean dropped an elbow on his knee and leaned forward. "So this Nadine was a _good_ person?"

Something in his tone must have betrayed his cynicism, because Mrs. Tanner's eyes were much less friendly when she finally made eye contact. "Yes. A very good person. And that's saying a lot, because heaven knows everyone's a bitch in high school."

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean glanced over the woman's shoulder to see The Kid standing in the doorway.

"Mom?"

He was cute, as far as little boys went – tousled brown hair and quick gray eyes. Obviously not to Dean's tastes, or any sane adult's, but apparently the poor kid was fey-bait… like jailbait, only creepier.

Mrs. Tanner popped up from her chair and scooped the boy up, even though he was long past the usual carrying age. "What's up, big man?" She looked back at the supposed FBI agents, an apology already written in her eyes, and said, "Can we finish this later? It's Saturday, and I promised Jacob we could go out, so…"

"Of course," Sam said, all smiles. "If you wouldn't mind giving us your family's schedule, though, so we know when to come back…?"

"Sure."

It took less than a minute for her to write out all the regular appointments and work hours, then she handed the boys the kitten-print note and walked them to the door.

Dean didn't even wait until they were in the Impala before he started voicing his theories. "This is bull, man. She's setting us up. Big time."

"I don't know," Sam said. "It'd be an awfully long con. I mean, Mrs. Tanner really did grow up with Nadine. She wasn't lying."

"Well, if she's not setting us up, she's just using us to cover her ass." He spread his hands flat over the top of the Impala, glaring Sam down across the shiny black metal. "She couldn't do the job because the good folks she convinced of her death might be a little confused if she suddenly popped up in their kid's bedroom."

Sam didn't argue. "I'm sure. But that doesn't mean she didn't have a good reason for leaving. I mean," he ducked through the passenger-side door and continued as Dean swung into the driver's seat, "think of all the people we left behind. Because they'd be in danger if we stayed. Or because they just deserved normal lives. Whatever. It's not a new thing for any hunter."

With more force than was strictly necessary, Dean threw the car into gear and gripped the wheel. Maybe if he could control the car, he could control where the conversation was going. "Again with the hunter thing."

Sam shrugged, unconcerned. "It makes sense, and there's more evidence in her favor every day."

"Just shut-up, Sam," he said. "Just… just let me think about this, okay? I can't figure it out if you never shut-up."

Again, Sam shrugged, as if to say 'You'll just agree with me in the end, anyway', and then fell silent.

It was nice while it lasted.

.O.O.O.

Nadine was waiting for them in a hotel room across town. The address was scribbled on a post-it note stuck to the inside of the folder's back cover, one of the last things Sam discovered as he flipped through the information. Her door was unlocked, and she was sitting on the bed, sewing a weird lumpy mass together as she waited for them to arrive. Dean marched right up and slapped the project out of her hands. Besides looking a little put-out by the interruption, Nadine gave no indication that Dean's continued invasion of her personal space bothered her. She just sat there, looking up, waiting for him to spit out whatever he planned to say. What came out surprised all three of them.

"Why did you do it?"

The question got a better rise out of her than the assault on her arts and crafts. Her eyebrows fluttered as her eyes widened, squinted and then narrowed. It was like she couldn't choose an emotion, her face stuck in a rapid rotation of feelings ranging from pained to amused. At last, she landed on something fairly neutral and managed a reply. "Why do you think?"

Dean shoved a finger in her face, and she nearly went cross-eyed trying to keep it in sight. "That's not an answer."

"Sure it is," Nadine said. "You just don't like it, because you don't like what you're thinking. You're thinking he," she nodded at Sam, "might be right. Right about me, and my weird hobbies, and the reason I saved you from the banshee, and why I faked my own death. And all that means you're wrong, and you just don't like it. Well, suck it up. We have a deal, if you recall, and I need you to keep your eyes on the prize. The show's going to open tonight."

Sam rose to attention and straightened from his slouch against the doorframe. "The fey's going to grab him tonight? Why?"

Crossing her ankles, Nadine popped her lips. "While you were investigating the victims, I was watching the kidnapper-to-be. She saw you go in, and she's getting antsy. I think she's been trying to seduce the kid quietly for a few weeks now, and with the FBI nosing around…"

"She doesn't want to lose him," Sam said. "I get it."

"Don't worry." She abandoned the bed and waltzed over to the dresser where an array of weapons was laid out. "It was part of the plan. I'd rather have her go after him on my schedule rather than hers. This way I know when to be ready."

"And she doesn't know you're here?" Dean asked.

"Nope. Also part of the plan." The smile she gave him wasn't entirely happy. "Contrary to popular belief, I didn't just need your help to fly under my high school buddy's radar. As you well know, I can be awfully sneaky when I want to."

"Damn straight," Dean muttered.

Nadine perked up and sent him a second, far wickeder smile. "I was under the bed for four hours the first time. You lost a pair of socks under there, by the way. They smelled like death."

Sam started to chuckle, tried to stop it, wound up snorting, and finally just covered the whole mess with his hand. Dean was not amused.

"You gonna tell us anything more about this grand plan of yours?"

"Naturally." She plucked two knives from the dresser and held them out. Dean accepted one and looked it over critically. From what he could tell, it was just a regular steel blade. "Those are pure iron. They might not look it, but trust me, they are. Mixed metals can down younger fey like me, but this Lady is _old_. We need the good stuff to put her under. I washed them with St. John's wort and verbena, so you should be able to cut through most enchantments with them.

"I'll be sneaking into the house later today, and I'll make sure the parents are both asleep while we deal with their pest problem. The front door will be unlocked. Be inside by ten, and wait outside the kid's door until you hear the fey. She'll try to coax him one last time before she just grabs and runs. Listen for her voice, and then go for the heart." She clapped her hands and opened her eyes as wide as they would go. "Questions? No? Great. I have a family to spy on."

She vanished, and the Winchesters were left alone in her room. Dean noticed that the sewing project from earlier had also disappeared.

Goggles, he decided, needed a new hobby.

.O.O.O.

As promised, the door was unlocked when they returned to the Tanner residence. All the lights were off inside aside from a nightlight in the hall, and they crouched outside Jacob's door in the yellow glare, hoping Goggles was right about the fey's timing. Sneaking out in the morning would be difficult, and they could only keep vigil so many nights before they started to be groggy past the point of usefulness.

An hour passed, and Dean decided that he didn't like nightlights. The dark was manageable. It was just dark. He couldn't see in it, and he could accept that. But a nightlight cast all kinds of strange shadows, and every time he or Sam twitched, he watched something long and sharp dance over the walls. It was just creepy, and he didn't like it.

Another hour eked by, and Dean was seriously contemplating breaking the bulb. Just as he started to make his move, the evil thing winked out, and he heard a voice from the other side of the door.

"Won't you come with me?"

Sam gripped his knife tighter and peeked through the crack between the door and its frame. He gave Dean a nod. The perv had entered the building. Repeat, the perv was in the building.

"I'll take care of you. You won't have to worry. I keep horses, you know. If you're a good boy, I'll let you have one."

Yeah, definitely the perv. And she played in the big leagues. She didn't even try offering candy first – it was straight to the pony.

Dean rushed through the door and lunged, not even sure what he was aiming for. All he could see was a woman's back, clothed in a long robe or cape or cloak – or some other medieval crap. He figured that was what he needed to gank.

She turned around before the iron so much as scratched her, and she sent Dean sailing with the barest shove. Before he'd even hit the ground, Sam went flying by his ear.

"It's rude to interrupt a private conversation," said the Lady.

She was rocking the Renaissance festival look. Unlike the monsters he usually dealt with, this creature seemed entirely unconcerned with blending in. If what Goggles said was true, though, that would make sense. The Lady was only mortal-side to grab a new toy; soon she'd be back in Fey World, where folks ran naked for all Dean knew.

At least she didn't look human. It was always harder to gank the ones that looked like normal people. Patterned over her skin were thick red lines that curled and split in an intricate, vine-like pattern, similar to a djinn's marks, over her face and hands. Her figure was just a little too lean and delicate to be human, but the dim glow from the nightlight in the hall wasn't bright enough to see much else.

Cowering against the wall, Jacob Tanner stared at him. Dean arched his back, fighting pain and gravity as the Lady stared him down, daring him to rise. It always hurt to see a look like that on a kid's face. No one should have to deal with things that went bump in the night, but especially not some rug rat who still thought girls had cooties. Little boys reminded him of Sam – forced not only to acknowledge but hunt the monster under the bed. And that face… Dean knew the boy was looking at his two knights in shining armor, trounced by the dragon. It was horror and frustration and hopelessness all rolled into one potent little package. It was all Dean needed to shove himself up from the floor. Both knives were on the other side of the room, and the Lady was between the Winchesters and their weapons.

She gave them an affable smile, certain of their helplessness, and turned back to the little boy. "Just take my hand. Come play with the other children."

Goggles – little more than a blur – came speeding from the corner and tackled the Lady outright. Another iron knife was in her hand, and she brought is slashing down at the monster beneath her as they fell, carving up the Lady's face. She only had seconds, but Dean saw the knife shining wet with blood as she brought it down for another slice. However, the moment she recovered from the fall, the Lady threw Goggles off and into a wall, snarling, and Dean knew the shit was about to hit the fan. It was like siccing a Yorkie on a Rottweiler; it just wasn't going to end well.

Mildly stunned by her meeting with the wall, Goggles didn't have time to defend herself as the older fey came swooping down on her. Long talons curled in her hair, and the Lady used her new grip to bash her head against the floor five – six – (seven?) times in rapid succession, like a bird cracking a shell. Dean knew head wounds. By that point, the world wouldn't be much more than a sliding blur of colors to Goggles. The lethargy in her motions and the glaze over her eyes confirmed his fears.

"You're the little coward who has spilled our blood?" the Lady said, treating Goggle's brain to another meeting with her skull.

Dean looked towards the window and realized that the impossible had occurred: they'd met with a stroke of luck. Goggle's knife, freed from her grasp as she flew to meet the wall, was only a few yards away.

"You're the one who has killed our own kind? You filth! Kin slayer!" With each insult, she cracked Nadine's head against the floor, and Dean doubted she'd be able to take much more before she gave up the ghost. She'd stopped trying to fight back entirely. He only knew she was alive by the way the hair that had fallen over her mouth fluttered in the breeze of her breath. "I won't leave you for the Trials. The Morrigan need never sully their hands with you. I'll kill you myself. I'll shred the skin from your bones, you vile little…"

Still dazed, Nadine managed to scratch at the Lady's face, tugging open the gashes she'd made with the knife. The Lady screamed and lurched backward. "I'll stuff iron down your throat!"

Dean surprised himself with a smile. So the freaky little changeling could play possum, huh? Smart girl.

He grabbed the knife just as the Lady pulled her hand back for a strike. Beside him, Sam sprang into action. While Dean steadied his grip on the knife, Sam pounced on the Lady, pinioning her arms behind her back and using his own weight to flip her over, presenting her unguarded torso to Dean and the knife for the few precious instants necessary to drive the wicked blade straight into her heart.

From the floor, Nadine giggled. "Never underestimate humans, Lady. Why do you think I brought them?"

The Lady twitched and opened her mouth to scream, but only the barest whimper escaped. She began to relax, letting her body drape limply over the younger Winchester, and then she fell apart. It started at the tips of her fingers and toes – the flesh crumbling away like rich dark earth, interspersed with dead leaves and twigs, and as the dirt whispered down to the floor, her soul rose away in green curls that dissipated like smoke. Her eyes were open until the very end.

When there was nothing left of the Lady but a pile of compost on the floor, Sam sprang up and began brushing dead fey from his jacket. Dean snorted.

"You've got some Lady in your hair."

Sam rolled his eyes, but ran his fingers through his girlishly long locks just to be certain… and came up with a handful of leaves. He looked queasy. Who knew plant matter could be so unsettling?

It took Dean a minute to realize Goggles wasn't getting up.

"Hey," he said in his gruffest voice. "You alright?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Tough nut to crack." Her voice wavered in and out, stressing random words and lingering in places it shouldn't. Now, he didn't know much about fey physiology, but Dean was willing to bet Goggles had a concussion. Few things could get their heads bashed in like that and walk away _without_ one. He took a knee next to her head and gingerly tilted her neck to estimate the damage while Sam went to check on little Jacob Tanner.

"There's a lot of blood here," he informed her.

"Just… just a day or two and I'll be fine. If you would… be so kind as to drop… me off at the motel," she twitched, "I'll be peachy." There was a moment of silence, and she added, "I can give you your favor then. Gives you time to think it over, right?"

Dean pressed his lips in a tight line. "Sure. Sam?" He looked back at his brother, who was tucking a blanket around the shivering boy. "We good?"

Sam spared the boy a little smile before looking back at his brother. "We're good. Jacob says he can clean up for us." Glancing at Nadine, he frowned. "Is she going to be alright?"

He shrugged. "She says she is. Right, Goggles?"

"Name'snah Goggles," she slurred.

"There. See?" As he talked, he scooped her up, and Sam collected the iron daggers. "Let's go."

.O.O.O.

Nadine woke up the second day after the attack to find her room occupied by the Winchester brothers. Sam was hovering near the door, an apology scrawled across his puppy dog eyes, and Dean was practically bent over her, his stormy face demanding her consciousness.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," he said. "Did we wake you up?"

Nadine thought back to her dreams. "Nah. You don't stink that bad." As she spoke, she leveraged herself up into a half-reclined sitting position. It was only moderately more dignified than being completely horizontal. And now she looked like she was posing for Playboy. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You owe it to the fact that _you_ owe _us_." Dean pulled away and moved to a reasonably respectable distance from the bed, but he folded his arms across his chest, and his determined frown spelled trouble.

"Of course." Of course. Of course. She rubbed her eyes and wondered why she was having trouble keeping up to speed. Ah, yes, the concussion. Blearily, she looked up at the two brothers. "Have you decided what you want?"

"We want you," Dean said.

And… no. It was too early (late?) for this crap. That sentence came equipped with entirely too many emergency exits to the gutter, and Nadine was too groggy to keep her mind from slipping down each and every one.

Blushing, Sam cleared this throat. "What my brother means is that we want you to give us a hand on hunts."

She couldn't stop her eyebrows from flying up to her hairline. "You _trust _me?"

"No," Dean said. He hadn't even thought about. Clearly not, then. "I'm still not convinced this whole thing wasn't one big scam to get us to like you. But Sammy here's pulling for you, and I've gotta admit, you know your way around a hunt. Now, you see, there's a detachable third wheel to this little side-show, but he hasn't been very available of late, and we need the backup. You notice the number of monsters popping up lately?"

The eyebrows remained in the stratosphere. "Was that meant to be a joke or a rhetorical question?"

Sam jumped to intervene. "We could use your help. That's what we want."

"Yeah," Dean said. "We want your help, and we want you where we can see you. Capiche?"

What Nadine understood was that, regardless of how this ended, she was not going back to sleep, so she flipped away her covers and swung her feet to the floor. She'd never been happier about turning in all standing.

"I get it, really, but believe me when I say you don't want me hanging around."

"Oh," Dean said, "we believe you. We sympathize. We _empathize_. We get it. But that's still our choice. It won't be pleasant, but you're coming with us, Goggles. I'm keeping an eye on you."

"You don't understand." It came out sharper than she meant it to, and she struggled to pretend that the boys didn't reach instinctively for their guns. "I'm bad luck. My relationship with the Courts isn't just a passive hate-hate relationship. I'm alive because I'm sneaky. If they get a bead on me, poof!" She tossed her hands in the air. "My goose is frizzled. Same goes for the good folks I hang around." For a moment they all just stared at each other. "Pick something else."

"No," Dean said. He seemed almost happy about ruffling her feathers.

She appealed to Sam instead, pinning him with her own patented brand of puppy dog eyes. "You know this is a bad idea."

"I _don't_ know," Sam said, running a hand through his hair. "We really could use a hand."

Dean, casting his eyes around the room, suddenly asked, "Where's your little art project?"

Nadine closed her eyes, squeezing them tight and praying for the room to stop spinning and the Winchester brothers to grow a brain… just one. They could share. "I left it with Jacob. Before I let you in, I told him who we were and gave him the teddy bear. Didn't want him calling the cops while we wrestled with his nightmare. It's a summoning link. If another fey comes to call, all he has to do is squeeze it and say my name. No matter where I am or what I'm doing, the link will pull me to him."

"That was a teddy bear?" Dean asked. "Looked more like Cthulhu."

"That's because I hadn't finished it yet, idiot."

"We want some," Dean said. When Nadine and Sam both gawped at him, he realized his error and sputtered. "No! Not teddy bears – I meant the summoning thing. I meant the summoning thing!" He cleared his throat and took a moment to straighten his shirt, seeking to reassert his manly dignity. "Yeah. We want a couple of those."

"But I told you…"

"No." There was no room for argument in Dean's tone, and Nadine realized she had been too generous in her estimation of the Winchesters' intelligence. Even half a brain would be an improvement. "You offered the deal. We accepted. We'd done our part, and now it's time for you to do yours. You're doing this, whether you want to or not."

Nadine could do nothing but scowl.

Dean grinned. "Start packing, Goggles."

**A/N: This is the chapter that never ends. Seriously. It's even edited down from some of my original ideas. Sorry if things are moving a little slowly, but on the bright side, the next chapter WILL have Castiel! So keep reading, please.**

**Reviews are chocolate. Not necessary for life, but great fun.  
**


	4. Arch 1: Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.  
**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Four: Smiter no Smiting!**

Seeing the girl stretched out in the back of the Impala just felt weird. It had been four weeks since they'd drafted Nadine, and Sam still couldn't decide if he was comfortable with Dean's deal. So far so good, but they had yet to encounter a fey. No one knew what would happen then. Nadine could cut and run, or they might come across something too powerful to handle… not that that was unusual. But still. They had enough on their plates without a side of vengeful fey.

But at least Dean had stopped reaching for his gun every time Nadine came into the room. They were making progress. Despite his protests to the contrary, Sam knew Dean was starting to trust the changeling. He wouldn't be taking her to Bobby's if he didn't. For the past month, they'd been hopping from motel to motel, only talking to Bobby when Nadine was out on an errand, calling only when strictly necessary. After a month of faithful service, the brothers agreed that it was safe to introduce their new pet to the single most heavily armed man north of the Mason-Dixie line.

"How you doing back there, Nadine?" Sam asked.

From her place sprawled over the seat, the girl groaned. "How do you think?"

"Aw," Dean smiled into the rearview mirror. "Is baby carsick again?"

"I'm not carsick." She almost sounded offended. "I'm ironsick. _Again_. Ugh… and I thought riding in a bus was bad."

"Dean." Sam turned a frown on his brother. "Roll down the window."

Snorting, Dean said, "Roll down your own. Or will all that wind mess up your hair?"

Sam chose to ignore that remark, and grit his teeth as he cranked down the window on his side. Nadine had already cracked both in the back as far as Dean would permit, but she wouldn't get any real circulation without one of the ones up front open, too. Riding around in an iron deathtrap, she needed all the fresh air she could get. Dean was just being an ass. As usual.

"How much farther?" Nadine asked.

"Seriously?" Dean smirked over his shoulder. "We've degraded to 'Are we there yet'?"

"I know you love your car," Nadine said, pronouncing each word like it caused her physical pain, "but for me it's like riding around in a box filled with bleach vapor. Just to add a little fun, some maniac sprinkled some hot coals around to bump into. Seatbelts? Ouch. They look so innocent and protective sitting there, but one brush with bare skin and WHAM!" She clapped. "First degree burn."

Dean shrugged, but Sam winced. He'd watched once when the girl pulled off her arm warmers, and he'd been shocked by all the old scars and burns blistered over the skin. If he paid attention, he could always find a few new burns on her exposed fingers, as well. At least she wore gloves on hunts – thick leather gloves that were almost as good as armor. When he asked why she didn't just wear full gloves all the time, her answer had been surprisingly vain: "I'm weird enough. Why look like I'm cosplaying as Rogue every day of my life? Maybe if I went to an opera. No need to draw any extra attention, right?"

Turned out it wasn't far to Bobby's. Thankfully. The second Dean killed the engine, Nadine sprang out and immediately emptied her stomach. Sam hovered awkwardly, digging his hands around in his pockets, unsure whether he should pull her hair back or something. He trusted Nadine more than Dean did, true, but aside from prickly humor and necessary domestic squabbles, they hadn't tried to know her. She was still a stranger.

But he still felt bad.

The screech of the screen door alerted them to Bobby's arrival. "Boys." He strolled out onto the porch, folding his arms under his chest.

Finally finished gagging, Nadine stood up, popping up on the opposite side of the Impala as Bobby and his house. She looked at the man over the roof of the car, and he frowned at her for a solid minute.

"This the _fey_ you boys've trying to housebreak?" he asked.

Nadine scoffed. "This the old geezer you've been calling when you sent me on milk runs?"

"Hey." Dean snapped around. "How'd you know about that?"

Nadine shrugged and held the pose, her shoulders up to her ears. "Uh, because it doesn't take me half an hour to get a pack of beer and you guys don't understand the concept of inside voices?"

Sam had to concede the point, but Dean looked angry. Flustered, but angry. Embarrassing him in front of his second father was generally a bad idea. Nadine didn't seem to care. Bobby didn't either, for that matter.

With a grunt, the old hunter turned around and headed back inside.

Nadine glanced around, taking in her surroundings. "A junkyard. Full of metal. Yeah, Dean, bringing me here was a plan just chock full of genius. Thanks."

"Welcome." Only the faintest tinge of malice laced his voice.

Sam rolled his eyes, and as if reading his thoughts, Bobby called from inside, "You idjits just gonna stand out there all day?"

.O.O.O.

They did not, as it turned out. Instead they went in, Sam and Dean got comfy in the living room, and Nadine fluttered around trying to find a space without any iron. Either because he felt sorry for her, or because he wanted revenge for making him look like an 'idjit' in front of Bobby, Dean sent her to the store to get food grown in the last decade. The only things in Bobby's cabinet were booze and beans, and the beans were long past their expiration date.

Discovering that Nadine could cook had been an accident. During their first week together, Dean told her to go make him a sandwich. She looked at him like black puss had started seeping from his nose. Eventually she stomped off, and an hour later she came back with a BLT. Dean's orders got more daring after that, culminating in pie, and Nadine came through. While Sam was more than a little embarrassed for her (she was a modern woman, after all, not a fifties housewife), he was thrilled with the escape she offered from diner food.

When she entered Bobby's kitchen, laden with plastic bags full of fresh ingredients, the old man's lips thinned, but Dean was quick to talk him down.

"I know it feels like an invasion of space, but trust me, it'll be worth it."

Bobby eyed the girl sorting her haul of foodstuffs on his counter. No one had really used those counters for serious cooking since his wife. Pancakes, bacon, and beans just didn't count after a few years. "You've got her _cooking_ for you?"

For a second, Dean looked unsure of himself. "Yeah?"

"What exactly did you idjits ask for?" Bobby asked. "Tell it to me. Verbatim."

"Well…" Sam cast a look at Dean the same moment Dean cast a look at him. Their eyes caught, exchanged their mutual failing, and snapped apart. "It was something like… we wanted her to help us out, and we wanted to keep her where we could see her. Why? Did we mess this up, Bobby?"

Bobby heaved a sigh so vast his shoulders sank half a foot. Then he downed half his beer in one go. "Naw. You did mess anything up. You got what you wanted, didn't ya?"

"Yup," Dean said. His smile bespoke weeks of gleeful amusement at the changeling's expense. "And pie."

"She's not your maid, you know," Bobby said. "And she could always slip some poison in the pasta. Ya idjits."

"We did think of that," Sam said, trying to regain his lost confidence. They hadn't messed up. "We didn't eat the first thing she brought us. After that we watched her cook. And she always ate the same things we did. Sometimes we'd even shuffle plates, just to be sure. But, Bobby," he rested his elbows on his knees, "she's not here to make trouble. She never tried to hurt us. Cooking wasn't even her idea. That came from Dean being an ass."

"Yeah, well," Bobby jerked his chin towards the kitchen, "anytime you _make_ a woman cook for you, you better be extra careful about what she sets on your plate."

"Isn't that the truth."

The three men looked up to find Nadine waiting in the doorway, arm warmers pulled low over her fingers and feet pressed together. All the iron around was clearly making her anxious.

"Food'll be done in a few minutes. Not sure what the protocol is around here…" She cast her eyes to Bobby, who cast them off again with a shrug.

"Don't stand on ceremony around here. Boys, give her a hand. Grab some plates, would ya?"

.O.O.O.

Nadine made salad. Dean whined. Nadine threatened to withhold the pie she bought unless he ate his veggies like a good boy.

Everyone ate. The boys wandered off to study and soon fell asleep, but Bobby and the changeling stayed awake long after the plates were cleared and washed.

Suffocated by the close iron-tainted air, Nadine wandered out to the porch, the screen door protesting her decision, and took a deep breath. It wasn't like there was any less iron outside, but there was a lot more air to go with it, and the light breeze carried promises of rain and clean earth. Her hands settled on the splintery railing, and Nadine leaned into the grip, locking her elbows and closing her eyes. Life as the Winchesters' third wheel was noisy, smelly and tiring. This was nice, this quiet. No wonder they looked forward to visiting Bobby Singer. She was sure it wasn't like this all the time in the old scrap yard, but it was some of the time, and the nearest neighbors were acres away rather than mere yards.

But the screen door announced another evening visitor to the porch, and her moment of solitude was over.

She glanced over her shoulder and found Mr. Singer strolling up, a bottle in his hand.

He came up to lean next to her against the railing and took a pull from his beer. "You know," he said conversationally, "those two might not be the sharpest crayons in the box, but I've been around the block a few times."

Her estimation of him had been spot on. The old geezer wasn't oblivious. He may not be familiar with the fey, but the man worked with demons. Doubtless he'd had to fiddle with the finer details of a deal before. It only took a couple brain cells to see the gaps she'd left in this one.

Nothing like flippancy to throw him off the scent. All men got stupid when they were flustered. "No offense," she said, "but I can tell."

"Don't be smart," Bobby said, irritation creeping into his voice.

"Sorry. It comes naturally."

Instead of taking another swig of beer, he actually set the bottle down and pinned Nadine with a look that cried _Bull_. He had her. He knew it. And he wasn't letting her change the topic with some greasy snark.

"Why'd you stay?"

"It's complicated."

"That's not an answer," Bobby said. When Nadine opened her mouth to argue, he cut her off, his words sharp and decisive. "'It's complicated' is not a get out of jail free card, sweetheart. Just because you don't want to sing doesn't mean you can call yourself mute."

"Did that make more sense in your head?"

"Stop." The command actually startled her into compliance. "Don't pretend this is all a big joke. These are _my boys_ you're ridin' with, and I sure as hell ain't letting them put their lives in the hands of some _girl_ who doesn't have the nerve to look me in the eye and give me a straight answer."

Nadine turned away and looked out over the lot full of wrecked cars. There was so much iron here… Just breathing made her feel trapped. But this was a corner she'd chosen to back herself into. It shouldn't surprise her that someone eventually called her bluff. Her eyes flitted over rusted iron and brittle weeds, winding their way slowly back to Bobby's face. He waited patiently until they arrived.

"Now," he said. "Why'd you stay?"

"Because they asked me to."

"From what I gather," Bobby said, much more relaxed now that the answers were coming loud and clear, "you weren't too keen on the idea of tramping around with them. What changed your mind?"

Nadine shifted against the railing, flinching as a splinter bit through her arm warmer to her palm. "I didn't. I still think it's a bad idea."

"But?"

The man was good. She had to give him that. He'd known her for a matter of hours, but he knew exactly where to push and when to pull. "But they wanted me to stay. And I wanted someone to want me to stay."

"And your family? That friend whose kid you saved? They didn't want you to stay?"

The splinter in her palm was better than the ones in her head. Pressing her hand harder against the railing, she concentrated on the scratchy burn. "They didn't know what that meant. You're clever. It's not hard to figure out."

The nod Bobby gave her was all too knowing. "People around you have a habit of getting themselves killed." He laughed without humor. "Know that feeling. Who'd you lose?"

"No." Nadine glared out at the piles of broken things, fresh determination filling her stomach. "I've told you enough. Your boys are safe enough with me. I have nothing to gain by killing them. It's not like I need hunters on my tail in addition to the Courts."

"Fair enough," Bobby said. "But tomorrow? You're baking a damn pie. No more of that store bought crap."

Nadine savored a private smirk as the screen door told the state Bobby was headed back in.

"Yes, sir."

.O.O.O.

The next day, Bobby made her a closet. Nadine didn't sleep at all that night, too paranoid about all the iron to relax. So Bobby made the great sacrifice of emptying a small walk-in closet in the kitchen that was supposed to serve as a pantry and iron-proofing it. Armed with a roll of masking tape, he went over the entire little room, inch by inch, covering every piece of exposed metal. Then he tossed in a mound of musty pillows with some moth eaten blankets and declared it done.

Nadine climbed in, nosed around, and popped back out with an obvious question on her face.

He simply said, "You're no good to anybody half-dead. Idjit." And walked away.

She managed an entire three hours' of sleep before Dean pounded on the door and demanded pie.

.O.O.O.

This was stupid. This was incredibly stupid. This was going to get her killed. And it was stupid. So was she. Why was she so stupid?

As she rested there, staring at the blank bottom of a pantry shelf, she realized the real question was why be stupid _now_? She used to be smart. There was a death certificate with her name on it to prove that.

Maybe it wasn't so incredibly obtuse. After all, the boys were both hunters. If anyone could cover their own butts, these were the guys. Out of all the people in the world to be stupid with, to put at risk, she seemed to have chosen wisely.

But this was still going to get her killed. There were two kinds of rogue fey: the invisible and the dead, and invisible didn't just mean vanishing in the literal sense. She was supposed to vanish in the metaphorical sense, too. It was even better if she was never noticed in the first place. Vanishing, after all, drew some attention. A missing person was a bone for hunters, cops and less-human nasties to worry until they got to the marrow. That was why she left a body for the police to find: her size and shape to satisfy the police, and fey – to satisfy the Courts.

She was making an awful lot of appearances with the Winchesters. Sooner or later, someone was going to hear about it. And Beltaine. What was she going to do about Beltaine? She growled and tried rubbing her eyes into her brain.

This was such a bad idea, but she knew she wasn't going to stop. By now, after all the fey she'd killed, someone was bound to notice. She might as well shoot up the town with the Winchester boys. So long as any fey they met died before they could tell the Courts _where_ she was or _who_ she was with…

Resigned to the fact that her racing thoughts wouldn't let her catch a well-deserved nap, she rolled out from under the bottom shelf and straightened her skirt. That was another nice thing about the closet – so much more privacy.

In the living room, the brothers were buried in Bobby's old books, gleaning tips for the next hunt.

"Morning, boys."

Sam looked up and gave her a small, closed-mouth smile. It was quick, friendly and casual.

Dean met her with a much more devious expression. He looked like he was gearing up for a good snark war. It was too early in the morning… or was it nighttime? "Hey, Goggles. How was the floor?"

"Oh, you mean my awesome plushy nest in the closet?" she asked. "It's great." She stretched, just for his benefit, and rolled her neck. "The iron, though. Yeah. I feel achy all over from that."

Dean subjected her to his elevator eyes. "All over, huh?"

Slowly, with dramatic emphasis, she said, "Ev-ery-where."

A snort. "Get me some pie, woman."

"Hey, woman's a step up from Goggles. But, no." Clapping, she bent over, like she was summoning a dog, and pointed towards the kitchen. "Fetch, boy."

Sam laughed, and Dean's sputtering was flat out darling. It had been a while since she'd said no to his patronizing errands. It was a nice feeling. She should do it more often, especially since Bobby had her pegged already.

She turned to go back into the kitchen. And got a faceful of blue tie.

"Uh…"

Looking up, she discovered that there was not just a tie in her way, but an entire person. It was, in fact, a man. He was wearing a trench coat, a very serious expression, and a cheap dress shirt. There was also a pair of blue eyes beneath his raggedy dark hair. Just as she realized the tie matched those pretty blue eyes, he seized the neck of her shirt and lifted his other hand like he was going to bop her on the head.

Strong arms yanked her back, and suddenly she was looking up in dazed confusion, her shoulders pressed against Sam's bellybutton as he dragged her away from the man with the blue tie. The stranger took a step forward, as if to pursue, but then Dean skidded between them, arms out like a man trying to keep two drunks from fighting in a bar.

"Whoa, Cas, just… whoa!"

From the level of Sam's abs, Nadine squeaked, "What's going on?"

Sam hoisted her up a little straighter and crushed her in a backwards bear hug, like she was a dolly the playground bully had just tried to steal, and put a little more distance between them and the increasingly frustrated man with a tie.

"Dean," tie-man snapped, "what are you doing?"

"Uh, how about _not_ letting you smite the pie maker."

Tie-man, Cas, pinned her with a look of unholy disgust. "That girl you're protecting isn't human, Dean. I don't know what lies convinced you to bring her here, but I assure you she is not what she claims to be." Everything about him was so sure, so focused, so consumed with intent. There was no flutter of emotion on his face, no indecision in his eyes. Nadine had never seen some with such conviction about _anything_. It was a shame his seemed to be bent on snuffing her.

"Well," Sam said, throwing a shrug Nadine could feel lifting the arms around her, "she's claims to be a fey changeling, so…"

"Impossible."

"Cas, why don't you just…"

"Impossible." The disgust was turning into hate. "The fey no longer meddle in this realm." He had eyes for nothing but her. Nadine could just feel her bacon burning. "They are little more than myth. It is impossible, and therefore a lie."

At that moment, Nadine became certain of two things. First, nothing the Winchester Bros. said to 'Cas' was going to convince him that he was wrong. Second, she was going to die – sooner than expected. These conclusions led her to the one tried and true method in her arsenal of sneaky escapes: time to blink out.

Sam squawked as she vanished from his arms, and his momentary surprise was enough to let her slip out and away from his crushing embrace. "Dean! Dean, she's gone invisible again."

"What?" His brother twirled around from his confrontation with Cas and groaned. "No! Bad, Goggles!" He waved his arms, trying to make physical contact. "Bad time for hide and seek."

"Actually," she said, appearing behind the safety of Sam's massive frame, "I think it's an excellent time. Dean? Why does your friend want to slap me?"

"He doesn't want to slap you," Sam said over his shoulder in his best pacifying tone.

"Of course not," Dean said. "He wants to smite you."

"Smite me?"

"Yeah, like…" Dean clapped his hand to a book, made a sizzling sound, and slapped it off the table. He pointed at the fallen book. "Smiting."

Gasping, she risked sticking one arm out in the open to point at Cas. "Smiter, no smiting!" A second thought dawned on her, and she returned to her conversation with Dean. "Seriously? Seriously. Is this because I made you eat salad?"

"Dean," Cas said, eyes burning, "please. Step aside."

Dean held up a placating hand. "No, Cas, just – stop – just listen, alright?"

"If you could tell I wasn't human in five seconds flat," Nadine shouted from her safe place, "then you must not be human, either. Pot calling the kettle black, much?"

"I am an angel of lord," Cas said. "That is an entirely different matter."

"He's a _what_?" Nadine punched Sam's unprotected back. "That might have been an important thing to mention, I don't know, _before_ he decided to drop by and smite my ass."

The Muscle Mountain barely even winced. This was why Nadine killed from a distance. Her physical might was only alarming to ants and very small household pets. "Yeah, well, sorry about that. Trying to stop that from happening, though, so could you please stop hitting me?"

She smacked him again. "No."

"Dean." The name was a warning this time. The angel was about to screw the whole 'ask first' thing. His voice said it all.

The hunter in question threw his arms wide, a helpless gesture of open negotiation. "What do you want, man? What will convince you that Goggles back there is what she says she is?" As an afterthought, he added, "And if she does prove she's fey, will you promise not to smite her?"

"If she _was_ fey, then no, I would not bring judgment upon her. At least not without definite reason."

"But how can she _prove_ it?" Sam asked. His hands had sort of snaked backwards, trying to shield Nadine in reverse.

Cas pondered the question for a moment, and replied, "Her soul."

"Yeah? And?" Dean asked. "Her soul. What about it?"

"If she is a demon," Cas said, "then there will be no soul to find. If she is a monster, then it will have clear taints."

"And if she's fey?" Sam prompted.

"If she is fey," Cas said, "then I will be able to tell. Fey souls were… unique. They were not tied to any one location after death. A fey could end in heaven just as easily as hell. Or they might not leave Earth at all."

"And you could tell whether it's fey if you, what, examined it?" Dean asked.

"Yes."

"Alright."

All eyes turned to Nadine. Very cautiously, she peeped out from behind Sam. "I said alright. I'll do it. Whatever it is…"

"He's going to stick his hand in your chest and dig around for the juicy bits," Dean said. "You sure about this?"

"Aw, Dean, is that concern?"

He shrugged and held up his hands. Let it be on her own head, then, his stance seemed to say.

Cas turned, grabbed a chair from the kitchen and practically slammed it down in the center of the living room. "Sit here."

Wondering if she'd just made a very bad decision, Nadine flitted out from behind Sam's back.

She settled in the chair, rubbing the arms and fidgeting as the angel rolled up his sleeve. The _angel_. What if she didn't have whatever he was looking for? What if he wasn't satisfied? It wasn't a question, really. She'd die. She'd just die.

_Angel_.

He stepped up to her, and she looked up at him, not even trying to keep the mingled awe and fear off her face. His stern disdain was a rigid as ever.

"This will be painful."

There was no good comeback to that, but she opened her mouth anyway, sure that some jibe would fill the void. One hand clamped down on her shoulder. She jumped, the clever words chased away. And then he was slipping his hand beneath her ribs. There was no pain to compare it to. All the burns she'd ever suffered, every wound carved into her skin – all of them combined were nothing compared to the blinding heat and searing agony as the angel rummaged through her body and spirit, searching for her soul. His face was stony as he worked, already certain of what he would or wouldn't find. Her senses were consumed with the pain, and she closed her eyes, as if she could block out awful intrusion by cutting off her sight.

Suddenly, his rough seeking gentled, and she felt rather than saw him go still. Gingerly, with much more care than he'd demonstrated going in, he removed his hand, and Nadine took great gasping gulps of air, certain that breathing had never felt so good, and that she was never letting an angel stick his hand funny places ever, _ever_ again. Her throat was sore. Had she screamed? Good on her. She deserved to scream.

When she opened her eyes, the angel was staring at her, lips just barely parted, furrowed brow smoothed in wonder. He hadn't risen from his crouch, though he had pulled back and removed his hand from her shoulder. His head was tilted in a faintly puppy-ish manner. If she wasn't in so much pain, she'd probably say it was adorable.

"I had not thought…A wandering soul." Hastily, he glanced down at his sleeve and began rolling it down again. "I did not believe the fey still walked the Earth." He looked her in the eye. "My sincerest apologies."

In response, she let out a low groan. "Dean?"

He stepped up beside her, behaving, if she didn't know better, as if he was just a little bit worried for his darling Goggles. "Yeah?"

"You know how I said I ached everywhere before?" She twitched. "I was wrong. _Now_ I hurt everywhere."

"Again," Cas said, eyes shooting to the floor, "my most sincere apologies, I…"

"Oh, whatever." Nadine waved a hand, cutting off his second round of apologizing. "It's fine. You were just looking out for them." She jerked her head towards the two brothers, both of whom had folded their arms and were looking on the scene with pouty frowns of concentration. "Now if you gentlemen will excuse me…" She slapped the arms of the chair and shoved herself to her feet. To her great joy, she only wobbled the tiniest bit. "I need to go sleep for the next year."

There were no objections, but she toddled all the way back to her closet in dead silence. She was grateful to finally close the door on all the weirdness in the living room, especially when she heard Bobby finally entering the scene.

She needed to be alone for a while. She needed to nurse her booboos in private. And get over the fact that an angel had just given her a spiritual enema.

And then she really was going to sleep for a day, just to spite Dean.

**A/N - Please read! So, I'm sure a lot of readers are gonna turn away at this point and go, "Oh, gosh, Cas is all twitterpated now. I've seen this before, I know where it's going." He isn't, and you don't. Keep in mind that this is Season Six Castiel. The warm fuzzies? They ain't there. **

**ALSO, I am not a complete review-harlot. I will keep writing as long as the muse is with me (and lately it's really, _really_ with me - much to the detriment of my regular writing), but reviews help keep me accountable when the muse starts blowing raspberries out its froggy little butt. I know it's not cool to read Supernatural OC fics... but I can see how many people read each chapter, and about FIFTY of ya'll made it to chapter three. So, fess up: you like it. Please don't stiff the waitress.  
**

**Thanks to all the lovelies who've been reading! Love to hear opinions, thoughts, suggestions, or even requests. Just drop a review.  
**


	5. Arch 1: Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Five: Makin' Friendly**

The nap didn't happen. She'd been alone for five minutes, assured herself that there was not a hole beneath her sternum, and just gotten comfortable when Bobby rapped on the door. He didn't wait for a response, instead swinging the door softly open to peep in on her, like he was afraid he might find a dead body instead of a living girl in his former pantry.

"Nadine?" he asked, her name rolling off his tongue with the grace of a square tire on a dirt road.

She smiled. Had he ever used her name before?

Clearly made even more uncomfortable by the strange name, the hunter went back to his tried and true methodology. "Girl?" He stepped halfway into the closet, pulling the door closed just enough to block the view from the living room. "You alright?"

"Peachy." She did her best to smile up at him, but she was tired, and the expression was soggy on her face. "I just need some sleep." Sleep and some serious reflection on life, the universe, and her place in it. Monsters were real, she got that. She _was_ that. Angels were real? Time for a good think. A strange sort of hope was burning in her belly, and it hurt.

"You and me both," Bobby said, dragging her back to the matter at hand. He swiped off his baseball cap and rubbed his eyes. "But I don't think that angel's going anywhere until he gets some answers, and since you're so keen on stringing us along with your precious little half-stories…"

"Great. He's a nosy angel." Self-consciously, she rubbed her stomach. "Already knew he was the groping type."

"It would be very helpful," Bobby slowly said, "if you would come out of your closet and deal with these idjits before Gropey gets pissy."

Nadine laughed. "His list of attributes keeps improving."

"Please?"

"Ugh." She dragged her hands over her face, pulling them down like she could haul the anxiety off her skin. "Fine."

Bobby stepped back and she ambled back into the living room, pulling her hands up into her sleeves as she walked. The boys were still there, looks of pained frustration screwing their eyebrows together and compressing their lips into paper thin lines. Bobby, it seemed, wasn't the only one ready for the angel to head home.

And speaking of the angel…

"You should have told me, Dean," he said. "I should have been informed. This is important."

"Yeah?" Dean was wound tight, and his voice was heated. An explosion was imminent. "Well the stuff we've been dealing with lately is pretty important, but you didn't seem too concerned with answering when we gave you a ring. So, yes, Castiel. We press-ganged ourselves some back-up. You've already cleared her, so what's the problem?"

Sam was hovering at the edge of his seat across the room. In his lap, his hands were neatly folded, but his eyes were wide as he eyed his brother and the angel, ready to spring into the fray with word or deed as needed.

"I haven't 'cleared' anything," Castiel said. His own voice was rough with frustration.

As she settled on a chair, drawing her feet up to the seat, Nadine frowned at the angel. The power was still there. His sharp scent, like dry lightning, practically burned her nose from across the room. But he didn't seem as in control as he had earlier. Butting heads with the Winchesters had robbed him of his clear purpose, and without the fixed resolution, it was easy to see the cracks in his mask. He was tired. More than that – _exhausted_. Like a one man army who couldn't get the radio to work so he could call for back-up.

"Knowing that she's fey and knowing that she is working with good intentions are entirely different matters. The fact that she is what she claims to be simply opens the possibility that she's on our side."

Bobby came to lean against the doorframe between kitchen and living room, a silent referee.

"If she's fey, and she's really bound by her word, then we already know she's on our side," Sam said. His was the only calm voice in this discussion, wisdom crying by the gate. "We made her swear."

Bobby snorted. "No you didn't."

Everyone turned to look at him, and Sam blinked a few times before asking, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Bobby said, "that you idjits don't have half the hold over her that you think you do. By this point, I'd say you've got no _power_ over that girl whatsoever. The only reason she's here is 'cause she wants to be. No idea why she'd choose to stay with you two knuckleheads, but heaven bless her, she did. How many times has she saved your bacon this week?"

Dean stiffened like something had taken a nip at his butt. His head twitched like a bird's. "Just the once. And it was probably a fluke, anyway."

"Does anything about that girl strike you as a fluke, Dean?" Bobby asked. "Look at her. She can't even open a door without a plan."

The angel looked at Nadine and finally addressed her directly. "If you are here of your own volition, you must understand that I have some questions for you."

Yeah, no surprises there. "I know, I know." She adjusted her arrangement in the chair, tucking her feet in closer and hugging her knees close so she could rest her chin atop them. "What do you need to know?"

"Where are the fey?"

Taking a deep breath, Nadine unfolded one leg and set a foot on the floor. She couldn't see what that had to do with her intentions towards the Winchesters, but there was no harm in answering. "Straight to the deep stuff, huh? There are a few milling around making trouble on Earth, but mostly? Tir na nÓg. They locked themselves away a long time ago."

"Thousands of years," Cas agreed. Even when he wasn't angry, his voice was like gravel. "That was when they disappeared. Why did they leave?"

"You'd need a bevy of psychologists to even touch that one," Nadine said, still gripping one knee. "Fear? Cult-like fanaticism? Isolationism? All I know is they got fed up with Earth and decided to lock the door to the playhouse."

"You are," Castiel squinted, "of age. Why have you not returned to your own kind? Surely they must be searching for you. Even when they roamed the Earth, fey offspring were rare. Children were cherished. Why are you alone?" He tilted his head. Now that he wasn't threatening to kill her, Nadine had no problem pegging the look as downright adorable. It would be a lot cuter if he wasn't prying into such uncomfortable subjects, though. Could be worse. He could always ask to stick his hand in her soul again. "And why are you veiling your true form with so much glamour? The Winchesters already know what you are. There is no need to hide yourself."

Flushing, Nadine ducked her head, staring fixedly at her knee, shoulders drawn and tensed. Confused, Castiel glanced around the room, seeking an explanation.

Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, little Miss Pinocchio likes to pretend that she's a real girl."

The angel's eyes returned to her. His mouth bent into a deep frown. "You wish to maintain the illusion that you are human? I do not understand." Helplessly, he looked to the Winchesters. "The fey were – are – noble creations." He turned back to Nadine, still befuddled. "There is no shame in what you were born to be."

"Listen." Nadine lifted her hands, warding off anymore well-meant reminders of her true face. "Maybe the fey were all great and worthy back in the day, but now – not so much."

Castiel leaned forward, eyes narrowed, like he was trying to better absorb her words.

"When we met her, she was hunting a banshee," Sam offered.

This only heightened Castiel's evident confusion, so Nadine forced herself to continue her explanation. Her heart wasn't in the conversation, though, and her voice took on a dry, hollow quality. "The fey aren't the fey anymore, not once they return to Tir na nÓg. For example, fey aren't naturally carnivorous, at least not where humans are concerned. But with enough time and torture, some fey turn themselves into monsters. A banshee can blast a human soul out of its body with a scream. Then they eat it."

"Wait," Dean cried, throwing up a hand. "That banshee was eating souls?"

"Duh? You didn't see it touch the corpses, did you?"

Dean blanched. "Holy shit."

"I do not understand," Castiel said, "why would they – why would anyone – do such a thing to themselves?" It was like her news had wounded him, like it has peeled away one more bloody piece of his innocence.

She could sympathize.

"Because they went insane." Better to tell it like it is. "Their society is based on brutality now, a self-absorbed black hole built on obsession and blood."

"Umm…" Sam raised a hand, turning it and letting it drop awkwardly down in his lap as the room's attention turned his way. "Not to be rude or anything, but, Nadine, how the hell do you even know this? From what you've told _us_, you've never been to Tir na nÓg."

"I haven't." Her foot returned to the seat of the chair. "But I knew someone who was." She was willing to let it die with that, but four expectant faces waited for her, and with a muted grumble about nosy angels, she pressed on. "The fey sent a mentor, someone to, I don't know, help me pregame for life in the Courts."

"And this individual told you these things?" Castiel asked. "Were they a reliable source?"

Of course not. She was an evil bitch sent to brainwash her for the cause. All those ugly memories stretching open, ripping through the careful stitches she'd used to close them… "Yes and no. But it was more what she did than what she told me." The dark and confusion of those early days yawned open in an invisible pit beneath her feet. "She spun a pretty story, but it was easy to see between the lines. Every encounter I've had with the fey pretty well confirmed my theories."

"Encounters with creatures such as this banshee Sam mentioned," Castiel surmised.

"Yeah."

Dean scoffed. "Damn, Goggles. You just get more cuddly every day." He took a long drink of his beer as the rest of the room turned their eyes to him. Sam was doing that thing with his face that was almost a bitch face, but came across instead as the physical incarnation of the "Srsly?" meme. Bobby was frowning (not that unusual – quite normal, in fact), and the angel Castiel was wearing his usual serious, mildly confused scrunch.

Popping off her chair, Nadine traipsed toward the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Dean asked.

"Question and answer time seems to be finished," she said. "And I've been through the usual evening insults already. I have a nap to finish."

She bounced away to her closet before anyone could think of a good reason to stop her, determinedly avoiding eye contact with everything except the knots in the floorboards as she passed. The click of the latch behind her was as soothing as a blanky to a child at bedtime: it could keep out all the monsters in the world.

She was getting too comfortable.

.O.O.O.

For the next few days, Nadine grilled Bobby and Sam on their history with Castiel, the holy smiter. She didn't ask Dean. There was no point. Ever since Bobby's revelation that the boys didn't have an oath to bind her with, he'd regressed to the snappish rigidity he'd treated her with during the first week of their travels together. He had no guarantees. He didn't trust her.

But Sam was warming up to her. Their tenuous alliance had lost no traction since the big reveal. She wasn't sure, but a little birdie in the back of her mind suggested he might like her _more_ for it. Sometimes she wondered if the Winchester brothers were even related.

Bobby, of course, had known since they met, so his fledgling opinion didn't change.

She learned a lot. She learned that Castiel was not just an angel, but possibly the best of angels – the only one to stand by the brothers as they battled the cosmic forces pushing them towards the apocalypse. She also learned something about the boys – they were about as sharp as a bowl of pudding. It wasn't a tremendous revelation, she'd already seen the signs, but she hadn't realized just how thick they were. Sam and Bobby both mentioned the angel had been antisocial over the past months because he was caught in a tiny bit of a war. Neither seemed concerned. More annoyed, in fact.

Pudding. Thick, gooey pudding.

It took a few days to work up the nerve and riddle out the logic to support her chosen course of action, but as she sat in her closet, performing her nightly ritual of slathering burn cream over her hands, she knew she had a role to play. If she was going to stick by her stupid decision to stay with the Winchesters (at least as long as they wanted her), she would do her best by them. In this case, the best thing for them was to support their primary wingman – who happened to be an angel leading a rebel faction against the evil Empire. So one night, once each of the men had settled down with a book, a bottle, or a blanket, she put her plan into action.

She stepped outside, descending from the relative sanctuary of the wooden porch into the junkyard below. For a while she let her feet lead her, and she followed an aimless path through the cold and rusty bodies. The moon was a waxing gibbous, brightening the black night to a deep blue. The stars and the cloudy puffs of her breath glowed white. Her hands buried themselves under her arm of their own volition, trying to escape the chill, and her shoulders rose up to hunch around her neck, trying to hide the skin just below her ears.

When she thought she was far enough from the house, Nadine stopped and looked up at the night sky. She'd thought about how to do this, had delayed as long as she could without being rude, all to find the right words. This was not her area. She preferred honesty, but practice had shaped her language, and it was rare that a sentence escaped without even the shadow of a lie blackening it. How to make an honest plea – a prayer – that was the question.

"Uhm…" A fantastic start. Inspired. The work of great genius.

Shaking her head, like she could clear the sarcasm from her brain, she bowed her head, closed her eyes, and tried again. "Castiel. I know you're very busy, and I don't want to waste your time." Truth. All of it. Was there a way to tell if the angel could hear her? "But I kinda need to talk to you. It'll be worth the trip, I promise." She opened one squinting eye, peeking at the piles of dead cars. No angel. Shutting her eye, she tried again. "You won't regret it. Seriously."

"I'm here."

Jumping half a foot in the air, she spun around, arms akimbo, unable to suppress a whuffled yelp. The angel was standing there, cool and calm as anything, watching her with those unnaturally steady eyes. Nadine's thoughts fell to mush and dribbled out her ear.

_Angel._

Castiel glanced towards the house, and then returned his full attention to her. "You called for me. Is there a reason? My brothers need me. I cannot stay long."

Her thoughts clattered back together, and her brain restarted. She could almost hear the hum and chime, like a computer booting up. "Yes. Right. I did. I'll be quick." She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "I can help you. I mean, I _want _to help. You know – with your 'issues' upstairs." The angel canted his head. "Because, yeah, Calvin and Hobbs in there," she jerked her head towards Bobby's place, "are good guys and all, but they're pretty thick. Like old custard. Maybe even jell-o. That's right. They're gelatinous."Rushing to explain, Nadine lost control over her lips and the rain of words soon mounted to monsoon-level intensity. "But you do lots of stuff for them, and I guess they can't do much for you, so I'm just volunteering, but if you…"

"I don't understand," the angel said. Nadine's tirade came to a screeching halt, and she listened to him, wide-eyed, hanging on his every word. "I'm having difficulty following your explanation. How, exactly, do you want to help?"

A gulp. A breath. Slow down – steady on, girl. "I make things." Castiel watched her, his ongoing analysis written over his face like a spreadsheet. She spread her hands. "All kinds of things. Magic things. The kind of stuff you'd need would take a _lot_ of work, but I think I could do it. Just tell me what you need and," she shrugged, "I can be your own private arms dealer."

"Magic," he said slowly. "You wish an angel wield magic."

She hesitated. "Is that wrong? Are angels not supposed to use magic?"

"It is… unorthodox. I have never heard of it being done before, but I know of no prescription against it."

As the air lost more and more of its sun-gifted heat, the clouds made by Nadine's breath grew thicker. The cold was becoming more than uncomfortable now, and wondered if the angel could even feel it.

"So… can you use my help?"

He blinked. Once. Twice. "Yes. I think I can." His voice was more gravelly than usual. In humans, that would be a sign of strong emotion, but Castiel didn't seem like the emotive type. Did she know enough about him to make a call like that, though?

The angel lifted his chin, and his eyes hardened as they narrowed. But there was the slightest shade of a smile there. "I would be glad to accept your assistance…" He froze, and surprise lit his eyes. "I do not know your name. I assume it is not… Goggles."

"You're right, that's just Dean's nickname. That way he feels like less of a jerk when he orders me to make him a sandwich." She smiled, and her shoulders finally relaxed away from her ears. "I'm Nadine."

The angel nodded. "Thank you, Nadine. I will be in touch." He looked up, and Nadine turned her eyes to see what had drawn his attention. There was a rush of wings, and when she gave up trying to find something other than moon and stars, she found he was gone.

.O.O.O.

Nadine needed a workshop. She'd always had plenty of space in the motel rooms she rented to spread out and make a mess, but comfortable as it was, the pantry was too small for such endeavors. But Castiel could come by at any time to demand a weapon from her, and she needed to be ready. She could always practice by making something for the Winchesters to use. They guarded their few worthwhile weapons so carefully, and they had few enough of those. It was about time she give them a gift.

A few words with Bobby, and the deal was clinched. She'd make some good toys for his boys, and he'd let her have the space to make them.

And so it was that she found herself clearing out a little lean-to in the junkyard, defended from the fierce rain outside by nothing more than a few sheets of old plywood tacked over the open side of the structure. Tools had been left to rust on the one long plastic table, and Nadine was working with her thick leather hunting gloves to remove them. The gloves were her oldest living friends, which was sad, really, because the cows they were made from had been dead for quite some time. And, of course, the gloves had never been alive in the first place, which was even sadder. Nadine tossed an old wrench in the trash bag Bobby had given her to use, and it left a red stain across her palm. It looked like a burn on the leather. She shuddered and wiped it off.

The room was damp, and it was still cool outside, so the moisture in the air made her work bitterly cold. Everything stank of iron – even the plywood. The smell hung around her head like a gas, suffocating her. Over the past few hours, the effects had been building. She was getting too light headed to work, and the scent was beginning to turn her stomach. If she stayed out much longer, she might live to regret it in the morning – might. Iron poisoning was a risky business. She huffed and looked at the old table, marked by a thousand old scars, dings and dents. It wasn't like she was one to judge, but it was going to take a lot of elbow grease to get this place in fit condition to make anything. But it would have to wait for another day. It was dangerous to keep going any longer that night.

She clicked off the little electric lantern over the table and ducked out into the gale. The rain pelted her in sheets, and she was instantly drenched. Under her feet, the ground was alive with landing raindrops as she skipped through puddles. It felt clean. After spending so many hours locked away in that little lean-to, the icy rain was like a natural shower. It didn't matter how cold it was. She'd just make a pot of coffee when she got in. The boys would be needing it by now, anyway.

All too soon, she was through the door and shaking off the rain like a wet Labrador retriever. "I'm going to put some coffee on. Need anything, guys?"

No one answered her shout. They'd probably fallen asleep. As she peeled off her coat and gloves, she rolled her eyes and started towards the living room. She was leaving a wet trail behind her, but Bobby had never been much for housekeeping, anyway, so she didn't let it concern her. She stuck her head into their usual haunt. "Guys?"

No one and nothing – except for a makeshift altar on the desk and a very busted window.

Nadine grabbed for the knife she kept on her hip, already backing out of the room. Her back met something solid, and it dawned on her that backing out might not have been the best plan.

**A/N: So... I'm a bad person. I had lots of reasons to be a bad person, but the moral of the story is still that... I'm a bad person. Sorry that this chapter is so late and so short. I will make up for it next time, don't worry. And we're FINALLY getting into more meat and less talk! Huzzah!**

**Reviews are helpful and encouraging! My muse likes them. Take this under advisement. **

**Replies to Anons:**

**MB: Thank you! So... here's some more Cas for you...  
**


	6. Arch 1: Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: Me no own and you no sue.**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Six: Angels are a Girl's Best Friends**

Just as she pulled the knife free, a hand clamped around her wrist, and a set of fingers sank into her hair. Her attacker squeezed, compressing the bones in her hand and almost ripping out a hank of hair. The knife fell. She screamed. It was half pain and half anger – a frustrated war cry. A knee flew up into her back, and the war cry met a swift and sudden end.

The attacker released her, and she managed to turn halfway around before an unseen force sent her sailing across the living room. She crashed side-first into the half-broken window, jarring loose a rain of broken glass as she crashed to the floor. She scrambled to her knees and looked up at a stern-faced man in an ugly suit with slicked hair. Before she could launch herself towards the door, he had a hand around her throat. He lifted her up and up, and soon her feet weren't even on the floor. As she dangled there, trying to breathe, he asked, "What are you?"

Nadine wondered how he expected her to answer since he was cutting off her air supply, but he answered her unasked question by sending her sailing across the room once more. This time she didn't have any awkward moments with the walls, though her head did graze the coffee table. The blood was sticky on her face before she even finished falling. Black dress shoes stepped into her field of vision, and she lifted her head to watch him pull a wicked looking sword out of his coat.

His face was hard and cold as marble. "It does not matter."

That was when Nadine decided it would be a good idea to blink out. So she did. The mobster's surprise gave her enough time to scuttle past him to the door. She found herself in the kitchen, blood oozing from her temple, a pronounced limp to her step. Her power was weak – too much metal, too much blood, not enough energy – and getting weaker by the minute. She watched her hands flicker in and out of reality as she gimped determinedly onwards. Mafia Man shook off the shock, and his footsteps echoed like gunshots in Nadine's ears over the sound of her panting breaths. She couldn't outrun him, and her special talents were fading. She needed to hide.

She hesitated in the middle of kitchen, glancing around, hoping for an open door or a dark nook to jump out at her. But neither presented itself. The only thing that jumped was a shadow. It came from her pantry – a rapid blur of movement – and suddenly there was a hand over her mouth, and she was no longer in Bobby's kitchen.

It took her a minute to catch up with herself. When her brain reconnected with her body, she found the big hand still pressed over her mouth and her back snuggly fit against a broad manly chest. Alarm claxons wailed in her head.

A whiskery cheek rubbed against her ear, and the owner of the hand said, "You were not in your closet."

Nadine ripped herself away, looking for a weapon as she spun. They were in what looked to be a very posh hotel suite – including a kitchen. A kitchen with a knife rack. She seized on the nearest, a good long blade with a serrated edge. She expected her kidnapper to be inches behind her when she turned, but when she whirled, knife poised to strike, she found him on the other side of the room, calmly filling a short crystal glass at the small bar.

He glanced over at her as he plucked up the drink. "Cas said you might be hard to find," he said, "but he didn't mention _why_."

With a slow, utterly relaxed swagger, he halved the distance between them. "A fey. A real breathing changeling who decided not to go home after spring break." He smiled.

For a moment, Nadine hesitated. She didn't know what was happening, and the stranger had used the magic word: Cas. Castiel. _Angel. _Maybe she should ask questions first, and play pincushion later. But she was alone. She was effectively unarmed (kitchen knives were useful against a sad handful of nasties), she was alone, and she wouldn't be able to remain standing much longer. Something needed to happen, and it needed to happen fast. With viper speed, she sprang forward and plunged the knife into the stranger's chest.

She expected blood, a yelp, a flinch, spilled liquor all over the carpet. _Something_. Some clue about what type of crap she'd landed in.

But the man just looked at the blade in his chest and took a sip of his drink, utterly unconcerned. Her jaw dropped, and a smirk crossed his face. "Happy now?"

Not fey. Probably not a ghost. Possibly a demon. Lots of other options.

In this instance, the truth couldn't hurt her. "Not really. Where are the Winchesters?"

The smirk flickered and died, and the man took a more substantial drink. He pulled the knife from his chest like he was taking off a tie. "You look rather pale. May I offer you a seat?" He waved towards the couch, and Nadine felt herself wobbling.

"No thank you."

The stranger cocked his head, not inquisitively like Castiel, but with sass. "I'm sorry to break it to you, but I think you'll be sitting down soon, one way or another."

True enough. Nadine hardly had time to roll her eyes before her knees buckled. She caught herself, landing with both palms flat on the floor. It was a very submissive position, and she was uncomfortably aware of the fact that her entire back was now exposed. Ah, well, at least she hadn't fallen so far as to faint like a princess in a strange man's apartment. Strange man… Was he a man? Probably not. Humans didn't teleport. Not as far as she knew. So what was he?

She looked up, and he was standing just in front of her, offering a hand.

"Do you plan on spending the evening on my floor?" he asked. "Not that I object, but since I gather you've won yourself a few battle scars, I can't imagine it's the most comfortable place to be."

Proud as she was over dodging a smooch with the floor, Nadine was coming to the uncomfortable realization that she would _not_ be able to rise on her own. And she realized that, whatever he was, she needed him. She grabbed his hand, and he smiled. Looping one arm behind her and around her ribs, he hoisted her to her feet and supported her as she hobbled to the couch. She landed on the cushions with all the grace of a featherless baby bird tumbling from the nest, and she wriggled self consciously as the stranger walked around to sit on the loveseat opposite.

"I must confess," he said, "now that you're here… I'm not entirely sure what to do with you." A chill flashed down Nadine's spine, and it must have shown on her face, because her host rushed to raise his hands and reassure her. "Don't misunderstand. You see, the plan was to send the entire Winchester hunting party into an alternate dimension while Cas and I mop up the mess here. There's also the little matter of distracting Virgil. You were meant to be with the brothers grim, you see."

Leaning forward as far as she dared, Nadine asked, "So you know Castiel. Is this his plan?"

He shrugged. "Cas sent me. More or less. But you," he stood and swaggered back to the bar, where he refilled his glass, "were not part of the plan. Not like this at any rate." Turning around, he rested against the long wooden bar, crossed his arms, still clutching his glass, and frowned. "And now, we really must figure out what to do with you." The entire glassful disappeared down his throat. "I suppose the first thing should be your leg."

Nadine glanced down, and realized why she'd been limping: a long shard of glass, likely from the broken window, was sticking out of her calf. A red stain was spreading down her leg. A blink, and then he was kneeling in front of her, a first aid kit spread out on the glass coffee table beside a fresh glass of booze and his long fingers curling around her ankle.

"Uh…"

"This is all a bit medieval, I know," he said, whipping out a pair of scissors, "but I'm afraid the fey are outside angels' usual parish, so to speak. So no quick fixes for you." He sliced the leg of her pants open to her knee and pushed the fabric out of the way, scrutinizing the unnatural protrusion from Nadine's flesh. It wasn't very pretty.

But Nadine had more pressing matters on her mind. "A-angel? You're an angel? You've got to be kidding me."

The man – angel – whatever – glanced up, his expression a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "Why so surprised? You've met Cas, clearly." One hand cupped her calf while the other dug through the kit, fishing out gauze and a needle.

"I thought," she shrugged, trying to divert herself from what was happening below her knee, "all angels were, you know, like Castiel."

"You mean dour, humorless examples of why it's dangerous to sit down too quickly in the forest?"

She puckered her lips, trying to hide her smile. "Yeah. I guess." Her eye wandered to the needle, already threaded, lying ready on the coffee table. "Um, I'm not sure how much you know about fey, but I think I should tell you…"

"That you're a delicate bunch with an iron allergy from hell?" His grin was entirely too pleased. "Yes. I've heard. Don't worry." He held up the needle. "Pure silver. And I won't use any dangerous human antiseptics to clean out the wound. I have something a little more natural. Just lie back and think of England. This will only take a moment."

Nadine leaned back and tried to take the angel's advice, but she couldn't stop staring at the thing sticking out of her leg, and every muscle in her body was wound tight from her recent near-death experience.

"What's your name?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice, and he looked up from his work to look her in the eye. "What's your name?"

"Nadine," she said.

This time, the smile he gave her actually qualified as gentle. "A pleasure to meet you, Nadine. I'm Balthazar."

Then he plucked the glass out of her leg and dumped the entire glass of alcohol into the open cut.

"Holy mother of cheese balls! Aw, shit!"

Balthazar cackled as he quickly stitched up the gash. "Always knew how to make a girl scream. Glad to see there's some fight under that quiet shell-shocked exterior."

"Ugh." Nadine threw her head back on the couch and struggled to regulate her breathing. "I'm getting stitches from a pervy angel. Just when I think my life can't get any weirder…"

"Oh, don't give me ideas."

"I wouldn't _dream_ of it."

Taping off the end of the gauze, he said, "All finished here." He gave her knee a final pat and went back to the bar, cool and calm as if he hadn't just performed minor surgery.

From the couch, Nadine studied him. Tall. Interesting taste in clothes – it took a brave soul to wear a v-neck that deep, and with a blazer no less. His hair had a ruffle-able quality to it that seemed too studied to be natural, just like the stubbly beard he wore was obviously the work of careful maintenance. Maybe. He was an angel. Did angels ever change appearance, or were their human guises like her own – fixed and immutable without conscious effort?

"You're watching me awfully intently," Balthazar said. He held out his jacket and turned for her. "Do you enjoy the view?"

"It's not bad," Nadine said. "You're actually kind of cute."

A smile. "You could do worse."

"I could do better."

He raised his glass. "Touché." The glass touched his lips, but he reconsidered and returned it to the bar, its contents untouched. "As pleasant as these opening volleys have been, my dear, I'm afraid we must press on."

"Press on to where?"

"That would be telling."

Before Nadine could think of a reply, he'd popped across the room and scooped her off the couch. She clung to him instinctively, fully aware of the fact that though it was a short drop, it would hurt like hell thanks to her new flesh wound. Was it a flesh wound? Did flesh wounds get stitches? Was it serious? It hurt, and that was what mattered.

There was a rush of wings, and suddenly the angel and his passenger were no longer standing around in his fancy flat. They were in a meadow, and the sun was coming up. Mindful of her bandages, Balthazar put her on her feet. His arm stayed around her back until he was convinced she wouldn't be giving a repeat performance of her last solo act.

"Welcome to Brittany," he said, making a grand sweep of the view.

Nadine realized the pile of rocks she'd seen at the far side of the field was actually the ruins of a castle. Those were awfully uncommon in America, and she was forced to believe him: they were officially in Europe. She refused to be impressed. "Uhm, why are we in France?"

Balthazar was already swaggering across the open ground, winding his way towards the ruins. "I have something I need to pick up. It would be best if you waited here. I'll be back within the hour – I jope."

He wandered off into the jumble of carved boulders and crumbled mortar, hands in his pockets, a bounce in his step. It was difficult to believe he was actually an angel, that he was like Castiel.

It shouldn't have been. After all, Castiel was in the middle of a war with his own kind. That was presumably why Nadine was in France with a leg wound. They couldn't all be like Cas, or there wouldn't be a war in the first place. That was a shame. Nadine would have no problem reconciling herself to an angelic host stocked with Castiels.

But Balthazar wasn't so bad. It was nice to flirt. It had been so long, she was afraid she was getting rusty. Normally batting her eyelashes or tossing barbs in a bar was par for the course, just a regular function of hunting her own blood kin. But once she joined the boys things changed. Flirting with the Winchesters was dangerous. Dean would likely shoot her outright, and if she flirted with Sam… well, Dean would likely shoot her outright again. Weird as it sounded, trading taunts with an angel was a lot less risky.

"Nadine."

Startled, she jerked around to see Castiel standing just behind her – scruffily tidy, as usual. But her instinct had overpowered her common sense, and her leg took the opportunity to scream out its disapproval. The punch of pain was enough to send Nadine down on one knee, and for the second time in less than an hour, she found herself in an uncomfortably humble position in the presence of a feathery smiter.

"H-hi…" she gasped.

Castiel knelt beside her, reaching automatically for the injury as his face turned just a little bit stonier. "You are injured, I…" He found Balthazar's work and shook his head, pulling back. "You are not supposed to be here."

"Yes, about that."

Nadine and Castiel both looked to find Balthazar standing beside them, a curiously lumpy sack by his shoes.

"I'm sorry, Cas, but I appear to have swept your new pet off her feet."

"Pfftt." Nadine was not that easy. Maybe. Probably. Possibly. No. Definitely not. "Don't exaggerate. I don't go for pigeons."

"You said, and I quote," he positioned his fingers to mark air quotes, "'You're actually kind of cute.'"

"That was a general observation, not an indication of personal interest."

Castiel did not look amused. As he stood, he kept his eyes locked with Balthazar's, and Nadine could swear she saw his jaw twitch.

"Why is she here, Balthazar?"

With a long suffering sigh, Balthazar dropped his shoulders and spread his hands, assuming the pose Nadine called Situation's Martyr. She often adopted it when reasoning with Dean. "Things happened rather quickly, and I was a _little_ pressed for time. It was a tight window. No pun intended." When Castiel made no move to accept the explanation, Balthazar continued. "In my defense, she was not where you said she'd be. She came stumbling in from the rain just after I sent the Tweedles through the looking glass. Virgil pounced on her, and I snatched her when she escaped to the kitchen. I couldn't think what else to do with her, so I brought her along. And I did what I could for the leg – you're welcome." He nudged the bag with the toe of his shoe. "I got the goods, though, as promised. All's well that ends well, right, Cas?"

Castiel seemed almost huffy. His lips were clamped in a narrow line with just the slightest downward bend, and his spine was particularly rigid. But he looked at Balthazar's offering – the lumpy sack – and nodded his assent. "Very well," he said.

Smiling and bowing, Balthazar stepped away and allowed his brother angel to pick up the goody bag. The moment his fingers brushed the fabric, some of the tension drained away from Castiel's expression, replaced with fresh purpose. Whatever this was, it was important. It was important enough to ease an angel's migraine. Nadine almost had the good manners to feel embarrassed about making Castiel's life more difficult, but after all she'd been through that evening, she actually sympathized with the Winchesters' jaded views of the heavenly host. They'd dragged her into this mess, and she was going to let them help her back out. And she wasn't going to feel bad about it.

Unaware of her inner monologue, the angels concluded their business.

"I will return Nadine to Bobby Singer's house," Castiel said, "safely. Then I will join you in retrieving the Winchesters."

"I'll see you there, then," Balthazar said. He took two steps away, then lifted up a finger and spun around as if a thought had suddenly dawned on him. "Ah." Trotting back to Nadine, he lifted her hand and gave it an approximation of a chivalrous kiss. From any other man, it would have been gentlemanly. From Balthazar, it was almost sexual harassment. "It has been a pleasure, an adventure, and all too short. The Winchesters don't deserve you."

"Mm, and neither do you." She smiled as she said it.

"All too true, I'm afraid. Until next time, Nadine." Each word bounced out like it was the juiciest innuendo in France, and then Balthazar disappeared with what, Nadine was coming to understand, was an obligatory rush of wings.

Still on the ground, she grinned up at Castiel. "He's a charmer."

"Balthazar can be… sanguine, when he chooses," Castiel said. "I doubt the Winchesters share your opinion. Their introduction was less… comradely."

"That sounds like a story to me."

"Once Sam and Dean are safely home, you can ask them."

He brushed his fingers against her forehead, and they were back in Nadine's closet. It was a snug fit. Glancing around, Nadine celebrated the fact that she hadn't left any underwear lying out. Living with boys, even when she had her own closet, made for little privacy. She was learning her lessons well.

"Safely home?" She had to lean back at an uncomfortable angle to see his face. He seemed unaware of how awkward the arrangement was, and looked down at her with his trademark mask of stoicism. "I thought that was why you sent them to an alternate dimension – to be safe from Mr. Mafia and his pig sticker of death."

"I would never intentionally endanger the Winchesters," Castiel assured her. "I suggest you rest now."

He disappeared, and alone in her closet, Nadine had few options. She could worry, or she could rest. The fact of the matter was that she was exhausted. She believed him when he said he would never endanger the brothers. She wasn't their mother. She didn't have to wait up.

And she trusted the angel completely.

So she burrowed into her nest of blankets and let the dark wash over her.

.O.O.O.

She was awakened some hours earlier when her door opened and a bright crack of light from the kitchen cut across her closed eyes. Blinking and fighting the urge to clutch her throbbing calf, she peered up at Sam and Dean, who stood haloed in the doorway.

"You alright?" Dean asked.

"Cas said Virgil found you," Sam said, proving himself the kinder brother, as usual. Unlike his brother, his puppy eyes actually showed some concern. Dean would be more worried if his Impala got a flat tire. He'd never bothered to make his distrust clear, and while his cynicism was grating, at least Nadine where she stood with him.

Now that it had tasted the bliss of rest, her little gash was unhappy with the idea of standing. But stand Nadine did, ignoring the pain in favor of traumatizing Dean. Before the brothers knew what she was about, she'd snagged them both in a hug. She was like a snake – springing with arms outstretched when her prey least expected. Dean turned to stone under her arm, and Sam tensed, clearly uncomfortable with her sudden proximity, but neither pulled away. Flirty angels, and now a hug with Dean Winchester. Would the miracles never cease?

But although he was permitting the contact, Dean did not approve. "Dude," he said, "I don't do touchy feely crap."

"Well I was worried about you, so suck it up."

Smiling, more at his brother's discomfort than Nadine's gesture of concern, Sam clapped her on the back. "We're glad you're alright, Nadine."

Just at that moment, Bobby finally returned from his quest into town with two cases of beer in hand. "What the hell happened while I was gone?" he asked. Dumping the beer on the table, he turned a stern eye on the young people clumped together in the doorway of his pantry. "Window in the front room's blown out. Furniture's smashed all over the place, and now I find the three of you making friendly in the kitchen." He crossed his arms, and all three suspects fell into line. "You've got some explainin' to do."

**A/N: This chapter is much shorter than I expected, and I'm incredibly sorry for the delay. I hope you're still enjoying the story, though. We're headed towards darker subject matter in the upcoming chapters, and that makes me very happy. That might make me a bad person. In other news... BALTHAZAR! Gotta love a sassy angel.**

**Please comment - that's how I communicate with my readers, and it lets me know I'm not talking to a wall. I do that enough as it is. My house is pretty sick of my voice. **


	7. Arch 1: Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Me no own. You no sue.**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Seven: You Give Me Fever**

Nadine pressed back against the cool pillar, savoring the chill as the cement stole her body heat. With all the iron around Bobby's place, she was running a constant fever. It just kept building, the taste of steel sticking to her tongue and itchy bits of rust flying into her lungs. Her mouth was dry. Her nose kept bleeding. Her leg wasn't healing as fast as it should. She needed a vacation from Mr. Singer's house; strange, since his house _was_ the Winchester Retreat and Spa. She was supposed to rest there, but working was much more relaxing. Hunting was a relief. It was an escape. Literally.

Because of her injury, the boys had her providing cover fire in case things went south – an invisible avenging angel waiting on high with an iron tipped arrow rubbed with salt. The warehouse the poltergeist in question decided to haunt was spacious enough to offer many convenient lines of sight from her chosen eyrie on the second level. No doubt the brothers would've preferred actual angelic back-up, but Nadine was the closest thing they had at the moment. If feathers could not be found, then they were willing to settle for Nadine and her tricky, tricky arrows.

They were there for files. A man had died in the warehouse, but every different urban legend had a different name for the dead man, and there just wasn't enough time to dig up that many graves. Of course, the ghost would find them if they went inside, but a bit of iron with a pinch of salt should be enough to banish the angry spirit long enough to vacate the immediate premises. And that was what the lovely invisible fey with her paranormal goggles and arrows was for.

So she crouched by the railing alongside the pillar, peering out over the open loading bay through the lenses of her goggles, waiting for the ghosty to get serious. It didn't take long. Unfortunately, it hadn't taken the bait. It went for the back-up.

Rather than hounding the man candy downstairs, it came for Nadine. Her first and only warning was a cold flash, then something yanked her quiver. She was sailing back into the wall before she even realized she was moving. One arrow was already in her hand, ready to be nocked, and she flailed with it, hoping to convince the poltergeist that the iron armed prey wasn't worth the effort. But the ghost was determined, and Nadine's flexibility was hindered by the quiver. She pressed her hands flat on the concrete, scrabbling for a handhold before she got dragged off somewhere she didn't want to be.

"Problem!" she screamed. "Guys! Problem! Casper can see me."

The pounding of heavy feet let her know that her cries had not fallen on deaf ears. Whatever their strengths, stealth was not high on the Winchesters' list of attributes. But at the moment, Nadine wasn't complaining. It was nice to hear the cavalry coming.

They skidded around the corner and Dean leveled his shotgun. "Where are you, Goggles?"

Oh. Right. She blinked visible again, and he fired a round of salt over her head. The invisible game of tug of war abruptly ended.

Still in serious hunter mode, Dean frowned down at her. "You alright?"

"Peachy. I enjoy being used as a dust mop," she said, brushing off her backside as she climbed to her feet. It dawned on her that she could actually feel the seat over her pants, and she lifted her hands to her face as her stomach dove to her shoes. Yup. So screwed. "We've got another problem."

Dean rolled his eyes and paced towards the railing, but Sam raised his eyebrows and waited patiently for her explanation. The brains needed to know all the factors before he could make an accurate plan.

Nadine flipped her hands palm-out, revealing the bare skin exposed by her torn gloves. They'd been shredded as the ghost dragged her along, and now hung open from the second knuckle to her wrist. Her gloves were worse than useless.

"Well," Sam said, "that is a problem." He spared his brother a glance and shifted his own gun. "We haven't found the personnel files yet. Assuming they're even here…"

"It's what the ex-employee said," Dean argued. "You remember – old guy at the gas station. If they're not here, then they're toast."

"Keep looking," Nadine said. "I'm kinda useless, but I'll stay up here, check this level… unless I find a closed door."

"Better than nothing," Dean said, shouldering past her to get to the stairs.

Sam offered a tight smile. "Give us a shout if you find anything."

Her smile was just as uncomfortable. It was hard to be relax in the presence of Pissy Dean. He still hadn't decided whether or not he trusted her, and his indecision seemed to be irritating him. "Sure."

She nosed around the second level, nudging open doors where she could, making note of areas she couldn't search. All she found was some old plumbing for the sprinkler system and a roach nest.

"Gross."

Eventually she wandered back to the central balcony, from which overseers once peered down on the laborers below. Her back found the wall and she slipped down to the floor, trying to forget what kinds of rodents and insects had made themselves cozy here since the plant closed down. She stuffed her bare hands deep in her pockets, hyper aware of the old rust stains on the walls.

She didn't enjoy this. She was most comfortable when she was being useful. Even at Bobby's, when she was sick and feverish, she still did more than her fair share of the cooking. Partly because she got sick of take-out and canned beans, but also because she felt easier, like she was earning her keep.

If only she could do her part for the angels. The workshop was ready, but Cas hadn't placed any orders yet. She kept busy working on some toys for Team Winchester, but she was getting anxious. Did he not need her as much as he'd indicated? Was he just humoring her? She didn't want to be a charity case. She could help, and she would. Maybe it was time to take some initiative.

"Shit!"

Nadine clambered to her feet and sprinted to the railing, leaning cautiously over the aged iron to see the Winchesters burst into the loading bay, guns swiveling as they tried to find their target. Then boxes began flying – with deadly accuracy.

"Shit! Goggles!" Dean dove into a barrel roll, and came up shooting. "Need some help here!"

Almost instinctively, she nocked an arrow and pulled back, prepared to aim. Only – there was nothing to aim at. The spirit had not manifested itself and was raising mayhem throughout the loading bay. Shooting a box would be pointless. There was no target. There were also the brothers to consider. With all those boxes flying, it was entirely possible that her arrow could be knocked off target and do some real damage to the hunters.

But she needed to act quickly. They were in trouble.

Lowering her bow, she took a moment to think. The ghost – what did they know about the ghost? A drowning victim. Guy tripped and fell off a ladder into an open vat of high fructose corn syrup. Horrible way to go. When not haunting the means of their death, ghosts were often skittish around such instruments. The memories of their deaths were ever present, sending long roots of fear into their incorporeal psyches. Very little could actually hurt a ghost, but they were still human souls, and they could be frightened off. So… she didn't have any high fructose corn syrup on her. But drowning… maybe she could scare the ghost with that. Would water work? A lot of it, maybe. Her eyes tracked the pipes and sprinklers snaking across the ceiling, and she prayed the water hadn't been turned off.

She dashed back to the room where she'd found the valves for the sprinkler system.

It was not her best plan, and she realized this as she came to a stumbling halt in front of the tangle of iron. Because brass would've been too easy. Naturally. There was the valve. She had to turn it. Her half-bared hands trembled at her sides. It would only hurt a lot. The stink of iron was bad enough to make her light headed, and she could just feel karma parked in the corner, laughing her sadistic ass off. This was what she got for teaming up with the Brothers Foolhardy. Burn, baby, burn.

But the Winchesters…

"Goggles!"

"Nadine!"

"Now would be a great time!"

No choice.

She covered her hands with her shirt, but the iron was old, potent, and more than a match for the thin knit. The fiery flare of pain was instantaneous, and she grit her teeth as she turned the little iron wheel. She imagined that she could hear her flesh sizzling. Her skin was bubbling – she could feel it. But she only let go to adjust her grip, hand over hand, opening the pipes. When the sprinklers finally kicked on, Nadine thought she might melt. Unable to release her grip on the handle, she locked her knees and swore at the black bars creeping into her vision.

"Goggles?"

Good. They were alive. It must've worked.

"Nadine? Oh, oh shit."

She peeked over her shoulder to find them hovering behind her, peering blankly at her hands. She was too afraid to look for herself.

"Um… I think I need some help." She shrugged. The movement pulled at her palms and she gave a full-body wince. Which just pulled them again. "I can't… I can't get them off…It's gotta be quick. Iron, and… stuff. Can't let it get in the bloodstream."

Dean stepped forward, determination carved in his face. "Right. We've got this. Sam?"

"Yeah."

Each took a side – Dean to her right, Sam to her left – and grabbed hold of her wrists. There was little ceremony, only a quick glance and a short countdown. On the count of three, they pulled.

Her palms tore as her hands left the knob, the skin fused through the fabric with the metal. It wasn't polite to scream in someone's ear, but she didn't care if she broke Sam's eardrum as he and Dean pulled her free. They released her the second she was clear, and she stumbled back a step, holding her hands up to her eyes. What little skin was left hung in tatters. Blood was running down her forearms, crimson against her paling skin. The intense pain leached the strength from her knees, and she sagged towards the floor. Spikes of agony drilled into her brain, shattering thought and reason. One of the brothers picked her up before she collapsed; it was hard to tell which one through the white haze threatening to overwhelm her.

"Dean, she's going into shock."

"Yeah. I noticed. Let's get her to Bobby's. We got the name. We can waste the poltergeist later."

It was all she could do to cling to consciousness and cradle her hands to her chest. Her eyes sank shut and her world narrowed to sound, smell and the gentle sway of her bearer's gait. She knew when they left the warehouse by the fresh breeze that blew away the sticky reek of iron. She knew they were in the Impala when the breeze died and the stink returned.

She cracked her eyes open long enough o see Sam tucking his coat around her, mindful of the zipper, his face alarmingly concerned.

"How do we know if the iron's in her blood?" Dean asked.

Climbing into the passenger seat, Sam shook his head. "I'm not sure. Fever maybe? Spreading burns?"

Dean shuddered as he gunned the motor. "Like getting cooked from the inside out." Nadine moaned when the car hit a pothole. "Her hands looked pretty bad. Don't know much about treating burns, at least not like that."

"Burns?" Sam shook his head. "Dean, the skin on her hands is _gone_."

They lapsed into a tense silence as the Impala zoomed towards the Singer residence, only breaking it once they'd pulled up to the house and started unloading Nadine from the backseat.

"How are you feeling?" Sam asked.

Through the haze, Nadine gathered the concentration to glower. "Like I left my palms back on that pipe."

"Here." He reached to scoop her up, but she stoutly shook her head and scooted on her own to the edge of the seat.

"I think I can make it. Nothing wrong with my legs."

"Okay." Sam backed up, making room for her to stand, but he hovered with his arms half-spread, ready to catch if she dropped herself.

Geez. She should play the shock card more often. This was the royal treatment.

Dean stood to the side, arms crossed, frowning. "Got any tips, Goggles? What do we need to do, you know," he waved to wear her hands were still trembling against her chest. "For that."

"Dunno." She looked down and realized that, although the blood was starting to clot, she'd bled down the front of her shirt. It looked like she was dying. Or dead. "Never lost my palms before."

Ah, awkward silence. Things were back to normal.

The screech of the screen door announced Bobby's arrival on the scene. His first words were, "Girl, what did you do to yourself?"

"I had a disagreement with some plumbing," she said. "It won."

"I can see that. Get inside before you faint."

"Again," Dean added.

"Right. Boys, help her. I'll get the first aid kit."

There wasn't much they could do short of skin grafts, and those weren't in the first aid kit. In the end they settled for some cheap whiskey and a few rolls of gauze. Sam and Dean had to hold her steady while Bobby poured the alcohol over her hands, and she fainted dead away as she watched the amber drink spatter on the ground, swirled with her blood. Then he rubbed in a healthy dose of burn cream. The pain was almost as bad as the act of tearing the skin from her hands. And it lingered. When she woke up she was in her closet, hands wrapped like a mummy's, a raw tingle tickling the edge of her consciousness.

She decided it would be best to sleep it off.

The next day she didn't feel much better, and she was utterly useless, which made her feel even worse. Sam fixed all the meals, and one of the boys had to open and close her door every time she went in or out. It was embarrassing. And frustrating. And she had to fight the tears that prickled the corners of her eyes whenever she moved. After all her years of hunting, she'd gotten used to injuries, and being fey meant that she bought burn cream almost as often as she bought food, but this was the worst pain she'd ever suffered. She needed it to stop.

The next day was even worse. When Bobby changed her bandages he swore a blue streak and made the boys hold her down while he poured more whiskey over the festering wounds.

The next day dawned, passed and ended, but Nadine wasn't aware of it, because the fever had taken hold of her.

.O.O.O.

Dean shut his book. The words kept blurring in front of his eyes, and Goggles had fallen into another fevered nightmare, so her moans and groans kept interrupting his concentration. It was his watch – Bobby's orders in case she took a turn for the worse, like they could do anything about it – but the others were still up. It was hard to sleep normally, and with a comrade lying wounded (dying?) just a few yards away, it was impossible. And, yes, she was officially cool in his book. She was a sister-in-arms, a creepy, sarcastic sister-in-arms who hid under the bed with the monsters, but a sister-in-arms nonetheless. After the warehouse, there was no choice but to accept her. She was curled up dying in Bobby's pantry because she wanted to save him and his brother. He couldn't ignore that.

He'd never done well with sick people. He hated hospitals. The moment he walked through the door, all control over the situation was gone. He had to trust strangers with the lives of the people who mattered most to him. Now, he'd almost prefer that. There was no hospital for Goggles, and no doctor could help her. All the responsibility rested on his shoulders. Monsters he could kill and gashes he could sew, but a fever? There was no fighting that. He was helpless, and he hated it.

Rubbing his eyes, he glanced at Sam, half buried in a mound of books on fey lore, desperately searching for a cure.

His baby brother looked up, eyes fixing on something past Dean's shoulder, and squawked, flopping half out of his chair. Dean spun around to confront whatever was behind him, blood boiling in preparation for a fight.

Castiel stared solemnly down at him.

Dean closed his eyes and took a deep breath, forcing his startled rage down to a simmer. Carefully, he returned his knife to the table, consciously undoing each of his unconscious moves. Sneaky angels – they were almost as bad as Nadine. "Cas…" Breathe. Just breathe. "Do we really need to go over this? Again? Some warning would be nice."

"I am sorry if I surprised you," the angel said, gruffly apologetic. "I'm looking for Nadine. She is not in her workshop, and it is difficult to sense her. The fey powers of stealth and invisibility affect even angels, it would seem." Three pairs of deadly serious eyes stared back at him. "You seem… unusually tense. Is something wrong?"

Wordlessly, Dean stood and led Cas to Nadine's closet. He opened the door to reveal a shivering wreck. Nadine's skin had gone deathly pale with blue shadows creeping into the hollows of her face. Her sweat had plastered her hair flat to her scalp, and her lips were cracked and raw, despite all the water they'd poured down her throat over the past few days.

Castiel's sharp inhalation was almost a gasp, but it sounded too displeased to be alarmed. He crouched beside her curled body and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. "She's running a high fever." His careful fingers quickly undid Bobby's latest bandages, and the angel studied the grisly wounds over the fey's palms with grim determination. Brow wrinkling in a frown, he tugged back the blankets covering her legs and peeled away the dressing over her stab wound. It had not closed, and the edges were red and puffy. A creamy white puss was seeping out into the bandage. "This is my fault," he said. "I should have made sure she was healing. It didn't even occur to me – all the iron outside…" He looked up at Dean, and the hunter felt nothing but sympathy for the guilt in his friend's eyes. "The iron must have been wearing her down long before this, hindering her natural ability to heal. Now her immune system is shutting down. She doesn't have the strength to combat the iron seeping into her body and also knit the open wounds."

"It's not your fault, Cas," Dean said, folding his arms. "We should've noticed the leg. Guess we underestimated how bad she was feeling."

As he reapplied the bandages, Castiel's face underwent a gradual transformation from guilt-ridden to determined. Dean didn't like Cas's determined face. It was the face Cas wore back when he danced to Heaven's tune, spouting hypocritical orders about faith and destiny. This was the face Cas wore when he had a mission, particularly a mission his human allies wouldn't like.

"She can't remain here," Cas said, bundling the blankets around a groaning Nadine. "If she stays, the fever will kill her."

Sam stepped up beside Dean, expression bent with worry. "Where will you take her?"

"As far away from any iron as possible." The angel rose, the fey cradled in his arms, cocooned in Bobby's old quilts and afghans.

Dean twitched. Yeah, Goggles was best off out on the range with an angel looking after her – away from the iron fueling her fever. But he couldn't help seeing this as a sign of defeat. He hadn't taken care of the people on his team, and now the back-up had to swoop in and fix his mess.

Castiel vanished with a rush of wings, and Dean turned around to face Sam and Bobby.

"Back to the books, I guess."

.O.O.O.

When Nadine woke up, the sun was shining, she felt fresh and clean, and Balthazar was leaning over her with an alarming smile on his face.

"Good morning," he said. "Sleep well, my dear?"

It was one of the top five most terrifying moments of her life. Slowly, carefully, aware that his answer could change her life forever, she asked, "Where are we, what day is it, and how much did I have to drink?"

Chuckling, Balthazar leaned back, allowing Nadine to prop herself up on her elbows. "Montana, in an old hunting shack. You've been here for the past three under my _tender_ care, and from what I understand, you probably don't remember much of the two or three days preceding your arrival. And you were ill, not drunk. So the answer would be: none."

"Ill?" She scoured her memory, trying to delve through the fog and confusion until she hit on solid memory. When she made impact, it was like running into a brick wall. She jerked her hands up to her face, struggling to fight the despair rising from the pit of her gut as the pristine white bandages gleamed back at her.

Balthazar's hand came to rest on her shoulder. "They're actually healing rather nicely," he said gently. "You are a very lucky young woman. If Cas hadn't come to call when he did, the fever would have killed you. Of course, you wouldn't be worrying about your hands then…" When Nadine didn't answer, he crossed the room and poured himself a drink. She wanted to ask where he'd gotten booze from in an abandoned hunting shack, but then she wondered why she should ask such stupid questions. Balthazar and booze were inseparable. The end.

"Your hands really aren't that bad," he said. "In fact, they should be as nimble as they ever were – with a bit of practice. I'm afraid you'll have to get used to the loss of your fingerprints, though. Those are never coming back."

Resting her hands on her lap, Nadine took a breath and tried to bring her thoughts to order. "You said Cas found me."

Balthazar lifted his eyebrows and took a sip of his freshly-poured bourbon. "Yes. And then summoned me to fulfill my patriotic duty and play nurse to our new weapons dealer. Welcome to the team, by the way, you know, officially."

"Thanks. Sorry if, uh, if I've inconvenienced you."

"Oh," Balthazar brushed her apology aside, "don't worry yourself. There are far worse assignments than playing guardian angel to a pretty girl."

"I try."

"It shows." Balthazar smiled, and Nadine found herself returning the grin.

"So you're assigned to me? What does that mean?"

"Well…" He set his glass on the table and swept down in a bow. "Consider me your knight in shining armor, mademoiselle."

"Yeah," Nadine snickered, "you're a regular prince charming."

Sniffing, Balthazar plucked up his drink again. "I like to think so."

"Oh, I'm sure you do. What other errands does Cas have you running – other than playing nursemaid to an invalid fey?"

Balthazar shrugged. "I'm just doing you at the moment."

"Do you speak fluent double entendre or something?"

"Do you really need an answer to that question?" His eyes twinkled as he sipped his drink.

Nadine rolled her eyes, fighting back a smile, and nestled into the nest of pillows and blankets she was tucked in. It was surprisingly comfortable – much like her arrangement in Bobby's pantry. It was uncanny. Speaking of uncanny… "Why go to this much effort?"

"Because you would have died without it…? I'm afraid I don't understand the question."

"How does Castiel validate wasting this much effort on me?" she asked. "How am I important? I haven't made a single weapon for him yet."

Balthazar shrugged and took a seat at the edge of her nest. "Fey are rare, you know. It's possible he's trying to preserve the only cooperative link he has to that race."

Nadine pulled her best impersonation of Sam's Bitch Face. "He's running a war, Balthazar, not a zoo. Protecting endangered species can't be high on his list."

"I wouldn't know," Balthazar said. "But now that you're awake, it is my solemn duty as knight errant to keep you distracted. So, what will it be, strip poker or body shots?"

.O.O.O.

"Have you ever worked with animals, Castiel?"

Hovering by the door, reluctant to wander too far into the demon's den, Castiel watched as the demon butchered a young vampire. He snapped out each of her teeth with a pair of pliers – first her human set, then her feeders. The demon had already hacked off her left hand, just to see if she could heal herself, and he was sharpening a truly intimidating butcher's knife, most likely in preparation for a full autopsy on the living corpse.

In Crowley's clutches, the monster was as good as dead.

"When a horse is injured beyond redemption," Crowley said, nicking off the vamire's right earlobe, "the good farmer takes the poor beast out back and puts it out of its misery." He popped a scalpel into his victim's eye, glaring silently at the angel as she screamed around the thick gag clamped between her bleeding gums. "The mare lamed herself, angel, and you didn't have the guts to put a bullet in the bitch's brain and make an end of it."

Drawing himself up, Castiel returned the demon's glare. "She was not beyond help. The fact that she's regained consciousness proves that." He spared the briefest of glances for the poor bleeding creature on the demon's table. "Her usefulness has not come to its end."

"I'm not sure you understand. This was an opportunity, Castiel…"

"And I'm not sure _you_ understand," Castiel said. His voice was calm, but there was steel in his words. "Our plan was to hold Nadine in reserve, as an option of last resort. Eve already walks the Earth. Everything is going according to plan, and the Mother of All must be dealt with one way or another, regardless. There would be no point in killing the fey."

"Only, I don't know, expediency," Crowley said, dropping a scalpel into the vampire's second eye. "How long do you think it will take for Raphael to gain the upper hand? How long before one of your precious friends sniffs out our little arrangement? What will you do then? You'd better be ready to get your hands dirty, angel, because things could get awfully messy awfully fast."

His hands were already filthy. All the angels he'd killed in his efforts to stop the apocalypse, all the humans he'd failed to save. All the lies he cloaked himself in. "I would never have made this deal if I wasn't."

"Then don't get too attached to your pets," Crowley said. "Remember, the fey is nothing more than a convenient and expendable chess piece. You can kill her nice, but if anything goes wrong with the plan, it will be your responsibility."

**A/N: Hey! Look! It's Crowley! So... is anyone surprised by this turn of events? Anyone? I did try to warn you. Sorta. Not really. But a little. **

**I hate to be a review whore, but feedback DOES encourage me to procrastinate on other projects that will ultimately be more meaningful to my life - like work and original projects and film editing and such. You don't HAVE to, obviously, but it does help. A lot.**

**MB: Hello, m'dear! Thankies for the review, as always. You are a fabulously wonderful person. I hope you enjoyed the dose of Cas and Balthy I provided for you this time.**


	8. Arch 1: Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Eight: All Touchy Feely**

"You know, I really can do this myself now. My hands are all better. Well, practically."

"Oh, whether you can or can't isn't really the issue, is it?" Balthazar said, tapping the extra broth off the back of the spoon. He lifted the mouthful of soup up to Nadine's lips, and smirking, she let him feed her. "You're well enough to go back to the fray. The bloody Winchesters will have you back by dinner time. This is my last chance to play nursemaid." He gave her a short glare as he dipped the spoon back in the bowl. "Hopefully for a while."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll make it a point not to grab any more iron fixtures, kay?"

"Good."

Once the last spoonful was delivered, Balthazar set the bowl aside and plucked up a bottle of pure aloe sap. His practiced hands unwound the thin layer of bandages over Nadine's newest battle trophies, revealing pink palms swirled with smooth scar tissue. The aloe was deliciously cool, and she practically purred as Balthazar performed their daily ritual, smoothing nature's best burn cream into the damaged tissue, his surprisingly calloused hands slipping around hers, between her fingers, down her wrist. His ministrations were much more intimate than any of Team Winchester would've been comfortable performing. And, yet, from Balthazar, it was casual as a handshake.

Aloe applied, the angel wrapped a single layer of gauze over the tender skin and rolled up Nadine's pants leg to expose the stab wound he had first tended to. He drizzled more ointment over the mending scar, and the performance repeated. Then he straightened her clothes and sat back, sighing.

"That's it. After this, my dear, you will be released back into the wild."

"And you'll be free to engage in your usual shenanigans," Nadine said. "Be honest – you're tired of playing nursemaid."

"Mm, true." He sat back, eyes twinkling. "But not tired of playing the chivalrous paladin. Just because you're on your feet doesn't mean I've lost interest. I'm still your bodyguard, don't forget. And I'm keenly interested in what kinds of toys you can make with those clever little fingers of yours."

Nadine snorted, smiling despite herself, and smiled up at the angel. "How is it that you can make anything sound dirty?"

"A _lot_ of practice," Balthazar assured her.

"Oh, I don't doubt it."

He glanced down and smirked, coy, and gathered up the medical supplies. "Get dressed, dearest. We're going into town."

The angel ducked out of the little cabin, and Nadine slipped into one of the little boutique dresses Balthazar had fetched for her during her stint as an invalid. He was uncannily knowledgeable about fashion. He even brought her matching heels. Privately, Nadine suspected it had to do with the feud between the angel and the Winchesters that Castiel mentioned. This was just another way of one-upping the hunters. Nadine wasn't bothered. Balthazar had good taste.

In a minute he was back again, and she smiled as she took his arm. A blink and a rush of wings and they were standing in Bobby Singer's scrap yard. Balthazar cast his eye over the rusted cars with a disdainful sniff.

Placing his hand on her shoulder, he said, "You know you can always call for me. Just say a little prayer. And," his tone became more playful, "keep me informed of your progress with the weapons. I'm very interested in arming myself – now that Cas has all my toys."

"Of course." She pecked his cheek, and gave him a one-armed hug. "Drop by anytime. And, Balthazar? Thanks."

"It's been my pleasure." His eyes twinkled, and Nadine had no doubt of his sincerity. He'd enjoyed teasing her. She had been a captive audience.

Glancing at the house, she realized the Impala was gone, and she wondered if the boys were out hunting. When she looked back, the angel was gone.

Balthazar's touch seemed to linger on her shoulder after he left, and she smiled, resting her hand over the place where his had been. All patched up and ready to go – it was time for a fresh start. Maybe making the deal with the Winchesters hadn't been such a dumb idea after all.

The house was empty when she arrived. It was creepy and awkward, and Nadine was irrationally tempted to just sit on the front porch until the boys came back. But that was stupid. Of course, stupid seemed to be her forte, so maybe should she exercise her skills.

The stink drove her inside, though, where the aged wood and dried herbs diffused the worst of the acrid stench, and she strolled through the empty rooms. Eventually she found her way to her closet. The blankets and sheets that made her nest had been washed (a small miracle, really) and neatly folded (a greater miracle, probably the work of Sam). She took great delight in turning the tidy pile into a mess again. Once everything was in its proper (dis)order, she wandered back out to the kitchen, and her stomach declared it was ready for something unhealthy. Balthazar took his nursing duties seriously. Nadine had gone weeks without anything fried, and it was time to put that to rights.

She was just turning off the burner beneath a skillet full of bacon when the front door banged open.

"Did one of you idjits leave the oven on? I smell something burnin'."

He was answered with a hugely dramatic sigh. Nadine smiled. She'd missed this.

"I'll check," Sam groused. A thud announced he'd dropped whatever load he was carrying, and Nadine leaned back against the counter, grinning. He marched into the room, head lowered, not paying attention, and the look on his face when he glanced up to find her standing there was priceless. Nadine wanted it framed and mounted on her wall, and a pocket-sized print for her wallet. It was like a moose in headlights.

"Nadine?"

"What?" Two more thuds, and Bobby and Dean pounded into the kitchen. They were similarly thunderstruck. Nadine decided she needed a triptych.

Breaking free of his shock, Dean smiled. "You're back! Great. I was getting tired of Bobby's cooking."

"Watch your mouth, boy."

Would it be clinging to just hug them all? Probably. Next best thing…"There's lots of good bacon grease in here. I can cook some eggs in it and make you brunch."

"It's three in the afternoon, Nadine," Bobby said.

She shrugged. "Brinner, then."

"What time zone were you in?" Sam asked, laughing as he took a seat at the table. He wasn't as demanding as his big brother, but the boy liked to eat. He also appreciated things like hummus and pesto, which put him forever in Nadine's good book. But sometimes people just needed some fat with their food. She understood. Obviously.

"I dunno. Halo time?"

Bobby stepped up beside her and scowled at her plate of bacon. "I don't think you cooked it long enough," he snarked.

"Bacon's only good if it shatters when you smack it against the counter," she argued. "It's gotta be crispy."

"You mean burnt."

"You wanna see burnt – let me make you s'mores someday. Marshmallows, now those I burn."

She was surprised by how easily she slipped back into their story. She wasn't pinching and scratching for space anymore. While she was gone, they'd made room for her. Well, maybe they just made room for her cooking, but it was more than enough space to get a foot in the door. More than that. They were _holding the door open for her_. Sam was smiling. Bobby looked so relieved he was uncomfortable with himself. Even Dean looked happy. He didn't hide his emotions well, and his smirky little smile was unguarded. His defenses were lowered. When had that happened?

Sam cleared his throat, trying to remind his comrades of etiquette and manners, and nodded at the white gauze around Nadine's palms. "How are your hands?"

"Aw, always the gentleman, Sam. They're much better, thanks. So's the leg."

Dean muttered under his breath, and Nadine raised an eyebrow as she went to the refrigerator in search of eggs. "Something to share with the class?"

"Nope." He squinted. "So… How was your time in the feather bed?"

"My, my, Dean Winchester, are you implying something?"

His eyebrows fluttered, and he shrugged, putting on his best innocent expression. "Should I be?"

Nadine cracked two eggs against the side of the skillet, then reached for two more. "Wow. You've got a dirty mind. Not as bad as Balthazar, though. Compared to him, your brain is like a Harry Potter novel."

"Well," Sam rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down, but Nadine spotted the blush he tried to hide. "We ran into your… friend the other day."

"It might surprise you, but I have more than one, you know."

"He means Balthazar," Dean said.

Clearly suffering from the buckets of awkward he was soaking in, Sam peeked up at her and made a wincing little smile. "He called you charming."

"And he said you hum while you sleep," Dean said, almost gloatingly. "Seriously? Who hums in their sleep?"

"I do not hum in my sleep," Nadine said. She considered. "Probably snore, though."

"Uh, I think what Dean is trying to ask," Sam said haltingly, "is… why does Balthazar know what sounds you make when you sleep?"

"Because he was my caretaker? He liked to watch me while I slept. It wigged me out, and he thought it was hilarious."

Dean waved. "So there wasn't any, uh… fraternizing?"

"We didn't have wild, passionate sex, Dean, no," Nadine scoffed.

Sam made a little strangled sound from the base of his throat, and Bobby snorted.

"Girl's not an idjit – like some people I could name," Bobby said. "She knows better than to get mixed up with someone like _Balthazar_." He frowned at her. "Right?"

It was almost laughable. Almost because it was also annoying. "Yes, yes. Right, right. Now can we stop the chauvinistic chastity belt meeting and move on to brinner? The eggs are getting cold."

All three men gathered around the table, and Nadine set the platter of eggs and the remains of the bacon in the center. As she stepped away, Dean caught her wrist, and she blinked down at him quizzically.

"I'm glad you're alright," he said.

Shit. It was impossible to stay mad at the man. His stumbling expressions of concern were too sweet to ignore. Nadine smiled in spite of herself. "And I'm glad to be back. Now eat up. I'm not cooking dinner."

.O.O.O.

"I see you've recovered."

At the sound of Castiel's voice, Nadine almost dropped the glass ball she was etching. As it was, she still managed to slam her hip into her workshop table as she spun around. The angel stood by the door, his face contorted into the usual bemused scowl. Laughing at herself, Nadine set down her work and rubbed the sore leg. "Hi, Castiel! You scared the crap out of me."

"My…"

"Apologies? Yeah, don't worry about it." Pulling off her new work gloves, she stepped around the table and approached him. "I haven't had a chance to thank you yet."

Castiel tried to shrug off her gratitude, shaking his head and frowning deep enough that his eyebrows almost touched. "There is no need. I do not require your thanks."

"Well," Nadine crossed her arms. "I want to offer them anyway. So: thank you for saving my life. And now you can gather the first fruits of your labor." Reaching behind her, she grabbed her first completed project, a little square box with a complicated pattern of knot-work burned into the lid. It carried the dry, musky scent of sandalwood. She tossed it to the angel, and he caught it instinctively, the sudden motion almost startling him. Nadine preened, pleased with herself as Castiel examined her work. "It's a ward box. Think of it as a magical canary. If there's a heavy ward in the area, it'll let you know before you smack into it. I haven't been able to do a lot of testing, but it should work on stuff like holy oil and sigils. It'll rattle if there's strong magic in a nearby object."

Squinting at the detail on the lid, he nodded. "Thank you." He slipped the box in his pocket. "This might be useful."

"Not the crown jewels, I know," Nadine said, "but it's a start. Is there something specific you'd like me to work on next?"

"No," he said, "but I'll let you know if a need arises."

Nadine smiled and tried not to be disappointed. "Okay. Great." She picked up the ball she'd been working on and held it up to the light, studying the progress she'd made. It was comfortably heavy in her hand, the weight disproportionate to its size. "So, then, what brings you here? Sam and Dean?"

"Yes." Castiel's eyes swept the workshop, slipping along over a dozen half-completed weapons and objects of power, studying the slanted roof and the rough table. "They have found a way to kill Eve."

"Oh." Suddenly the conversation was a lot more interesting. She returned the orb to the table. "Well, that's news. I've been working out here all day – it's a glorious excuse to dodge researching. So they found a way to gank her, huh? Good on them."

"They have also discovered that they must travel back in time in order to attain the ashes of the phoenix, which are required to destroy the Mother of All."

Nadine contorted her face in an exaggerated thoughtful frown. "Huh. That might be tricky."

"That's why I'm here. Dean… called for me."

"Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you can send people back in time?"

"Yes."

She clapped a hand over her eyes and tried to rub out the weirdness. "And I thought my life couldn't get any stranger." Castiel didn't answer, and once she'd come to grips with reality again, she peered over at him, studying the loose knot of his tie and the faint blue shadows ringing his eyes. His eyes were bloodshot. "You look tired."

He met her gaze, blinked once, and looked away. "The war is… draining. Many of my brethren have died in the past weeks, but we have made little headway against Raphael's forces. So, yes, I suppose I am… tired."

A strange silence settled over the workshop, not entirely uncomfortable, not entirely easy. Angel and fey each held their places, filled with their own concerns, holding in their words. Inside her gloves, Nadine's hands began to sweat, and she peeled off the thick leather with relief, leaving only her thin fingerless gloves as protection. The bandages were gone, her palms healed – covered in rosy flesh and swirled with white scars.

"I wish I could do more to help."

In a low, guttural voice, Castiel replied, "You do more than enough. You didn't need to volunteer your services, and I… appreciate… your concern."

The mood was tense, and Nadine couldn't tell when it had shifted. Nervously, she offered a fluttery smile. "Well, if you ever need anything, just ask."

"Thank you."

He vanished, presumably back to the house, and Nadine struggled to repress the little whisper of relief stirring in the back of her mind.

.O.O.O.

The boys headed back to the old west, and Nadine stayed with Bobby. Without Sam and Dean to help him research, the old hunter recruited his only available assistant, which just happened to be the Winchesters' pet fey. Honestly, Nadine didn't much care. She'd gone to the workshop to escape the papery graveyard that was Bobby's never ending library, but she was tired, and curling up with a book sounded better than any kind of physical labor, even light work on handicrafts. Even papier-mâché sounded exhausting. And so, with very little protest, she fetched a blanket from her nest and made camp on the sofa with a stack of old lore books.

The trick was staying awake.

"How's the lean-to working out for you?"

Jarred out of her nearly catatonic state, Nadine blinked owlishly at Bobby, trying to string his words into a meaningful sentence. By the time the fog cleared, she'd allowed the silence to stretch beyond the point of awkward, and she blurted, "Fine! Fine. It's fine."

Bobby nodded. "Good. Any more problems with your leg?"

"Nope." She lifted the book she was supposed to be skimming, lingering on an image of angels warring with the armies of hell. One was hovering at the top right corner of the page, his long robes amusingly reminiscent of an overcoat. "Nope. No problems. It's fine, too."

"Good." Then it was Bobby's turn to let the silence stretch to uncomfortable lengths. Finally, clearing his throat, he asked, "Any problems you haven't shared with me?"

"Uh," Nadine looked up from her book, baffled. "Just the usual, I guess."

"The usual?" Bobby echoed. "And just what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you're not my shrink, and your couch isn't _that_ comfortable," Nadine said. She turned her attention back to her book, determined to ignore him. "A girl's got to have a few secrets," she muttered.

Bobby scoffed, but he complied with her wordless request to end the conversation and returned to his own stack of books.

Until, that is, Castiel landed in the kitchen.

"What the hell?" Bobby and Nadine both sprang from their seats, rushing to the angel's side, Bobby grabbing his gun as he moved. In the kitchen, the angel was on all fours, his breath wheezing in and out in quick harsh pants. "Cas?"

Castiel held out a hand, a silent command, and Bobby came to a halt just inside the kitchen. Nadine hovered at his shoulder as they watched Cas smear his own blood on the wall, dipping his fingers into a wound on his side for fresh paint. It was graceless and scary. It made Nadine wonder what could have done such damage to an angel. Eventually he finished and rose to his feet with all the stability of a newborn foal. If he'd looked tired before, he looked like he was on death's door now.

"Cas?" Bobby asked again, just as shaken as Nadine.

The angel looked at them with determination burning hot in his eyes, but Nadine could tell that all his strength was being used to remain upright.

"We running or fighting?" Bobby asked.

Cas took a few steps, each more unsteady than the last. "We're…" He tumbled into Bobby's arms before he could finish, and the hunter only just caught him, muttering, "Balls," through gritted teeth. "Gonna help here, Nadine?"

"Right." She swooped in and took as much of Castiel's weight as she could bear. The man was no feather, and it was a struggle to land him on the couch. While Bobby checked over the angel's wound, Nadine fetched the first aid kit and more of her own blankets.

She put the supplies on a coffee table in Bobby's reach. Glancing down, she discovered a spot of blood the angel's limp hand had smeared over her shirt. She pulled the fabric taught and frowned at the stain. She'd never get over the fact that angels could bleed. It made her, so much weaker than an angel, feel all the more fragile.

"Will he be alright?" she asked.

Bobby finished patching the woun, and wiped the blood off his hands on a spare rag. "He's taken worse hits than this," he said. "That's all I can say for sure. All we can do now is watch and wait." He nodded towards her closet. "Get your gear. Whatever shot down feathers here might come knocking."

Nadine pressed her lips into a tight line. "Of course." Five minutes later, she was sitting in a chair beside the couch, sword over her knees, bow and quiver at her feet. She was wearing her goggles, too. They made the whole room look strangely sharp, certain ancient tomes or magically potent objects bleeding soft colors into the air. But nothing seemed amiss. Nothing unusual was tainting the various auras, and Nadine was confident that Castiel had not been followed.

She stared at the angel through the goggles, mystified. His face was the same – pinched with pain and anxiety, scruffily handsome – and she could see his human vessel perfectly well. But she could tell it was a vessel. It was like she could see the pressure within the mortal body. Though it could hardly be called glowing, Castiel was brighter than the rest of the room, and a faint light was seeping from beneath the bandage Bobby had applied to the wound. It felt wrong, looking at him, like she was peeking at something naughty, and after a while she pried her eyes away, granting him as much privacy as she could.

Besides, she was supposed to be watching for bad guys. While Bobby rooted through his books for an angelic cure-all for their friend, Nadine let her eyes rove over any and all possible points of entry.

When Castiel jerked awake, he startled her almost as badly as he startled himself. His face fell instantly into fight-mode, and he swung his legs over the side of the settee, struggling to get his feet under himself. Without really stopping to consider the situation, Nadine reached out and settled her hands on his shoulders, trying to hold him back before he sprang up and reopened the wound. If he hadn't already. He winced and blinked, turning unnaturally steady eyes on Nadine. The light was almost blinding, and she shoved her goggles up. Castiel's face went back to that of a simple tired warrior, and Nadine decided she would avoid angel-spotting in the future.

And just like that, their position became awkward, and she pulled away, sinking into her chair and readjusting the sword on her lap. Castiel, still reigning his nerves in, spared her a bemused glance, unusually worn, and let his gaze twitch around the room, seeking enemies.

"Cas," Bobby said, voice as far from gruff as the old hunter ever managed. "You look like you went twelve rounds with Truck-u-saurus. What happened?"

Sighing, Cas fixed his eyes – fleetingly – on the old hunter. Then he licked his lips, glanced away, and continued fidgeting. "I was, uh." Nervous energy was pouring off him in waves. Nadine felt anxious just sitting next to him. "I was betrayed. Rachel, uh… Raphael." He was coiled, ready for action, his eyes darting to the windows like he expected his nemesis to come crashing through at the mention of his name. "He corrupted her; she turned on me."

"I'm sorry," Bobby said guardedly. "Girl's a real… peach."

Nadine glanced at him – up and sideways – wondering what she'd missed while she was slaving away in the workshop.

"She's…" Castiel wasn't looking at anything anymore. His restless eyes had fixed on the floor, focusing on the middle distance as he fought with his words. "Dead." Finally, he looked back at Bobby and Nadine, though his gaze slipped off them like they were painful to see. "I was wounded. I needed safety. Thank you." He tried to rise, grunting with the effort, and this time Bobby took the initiative, reaching for his shoulder until the angel quieted again and resigned himself to the fact that he was couch-bound for the time being.

"What's with the finger painting?" Bobby asked in an attempt to refocus Cas.

"It's a warding symbol against angels."

Then Bobby left the tactful route. "How bad's it hurt?"

"I'll heal," Castiel said, eyes on his shoes. Despite the fact that he was too weak to regain his feet, he wouldn't stop wriggling and squirming, constantly adjusting his position on the couch.

"Well good," Bobby said. He straightened and headed towards the kitchen. "Because we've got less than an hour before you pick up the kids at frontier land."

"I can't."

Of course that wasn't good enough for Bobby. Not that Nadine blamed him.

She let the two men bicker, sitting there in her chair, listening to the mounting fear. Bobby was practical as death, but those were his boys, and the idea of losing them to the past had his hair on end, she could tell. But Castiel… he was out of juice. He couldn't even stand. The guy needed a power shake… or something. She settled her hands on her sword.

"What do you need?" she asked, interrupting whatever explanation Cas was about to deliver.

He blinked, surprised by the interruption, and he was startled enough to actually look her in the eye. But not for more than an instant. Then his eyes slid away again, and he address the legs of another chair as he replied, "It's your soul."

"What do you want us to do?" Bobby asked. "Make another deal? Seal it with a kiss?" There was a dry note of irony in his voice that was impossible to ignore. Nadine made a note to ask him about it later.

Fixing his eyes on Bobby, speaking deliberately, Cas said, "I need you to let me touch it."

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. "Touch it?"

"The human soul, it's – uh – pure energy," Castiel explained, talking with his hands. "If I can siphon some of that off, I might be able to bring Sam and Dean back."

But Bobby had been around the block a few times. He knew the answer never came that easy. "And the catch is?"

"Doing this is like putting your hand in a nuclear reactor," Cas said. His eyes were glued to Bobby. "I have to do it very gingerly." Even though Nadine had asked the question, she wasn't really part of the conversation anymore.

"Or?"

Castiel broke eye contact, focus wandering away to the side. "Or you'll explode."

Bobby took a deep breath. "Well." Castiel looked back at him. "Keep both hands on the wheel. Let's do this."

"Would a fey soul work?"

The hunter and the angel froze, and both glanced her way.

"I…" the words came out slowly, like they were being dragged from Castiel's lips. "I suppose it would, yes."

"Then I volunteer."

"Nadine, really, I can do this," Bobby said. "You just got better."

"Yeah, but," she smirked. "I'm not calling you old, but you're not getting any younger."

Bobby scoffed. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It means I bounce back faster than you do," Nadine said. "And, besides, the guys will need your help when they get back." She pointed to the lore she'd been sorting through earlier. "I'm rubbish with books these days."

"Well… if you want to…" Bobby peered at the angel. "But maybe I should."

"No, no, it's cool. I'll be fine. I've already gotten a spiritual roto-ruter once, remember? I've got this. Don't worry about it, Bobby."

Castiel flared his nostrils and let out a long whoosh of air that sounded suspiciously like a put-upon sigh. But he forced himself to his feet, and Nadine assumed he was making preparations to go spelunking in her chest cavity again. Bobby shifted, peering between angel and fey with undisguised anxiety. "Well, it's your call," he said. "But don't feel pressured."

"Ah, yeah, because leaving two friends stuck in the past forever and always is a low pressure situation." He shook his head and shuffled his feet to work out some of his anxious energy, and Nadine rolled her eyes. "I've got this, Bobby. Sit down. You're making me nervous."

"There is no reason to be nervous," Cas said, his voice deadpan as he rolled up his sleeve. The action was all too familiar, and Nadine fought down the spark of panic in her chest.

"Didn't you mention explosions earlier?" she asked.

"Yes."

"So I could explode."

"Yes."

"So you were lying just now."

"Yes."

"Dang, you're a bad liar."

Castiel took up his position in front of her, his expression schooled into distanced concentration. "You are not the first to tell me so. Now relax. And stay very, very still."

For an instant, his fingers tickled her stomach through the fabric of her shirt. Then there was nothing but blinding pain. It was just as bad as the first time, only this time Castiel moved with greater caution, more slowly, which meant the process was drawn out that much longer. Nadine screamed fire and, despite Castiel's warning, couldn't help jerking as her body instinctively fought the all-consuming heat. It was sharper than a burn, but nothing like a knife. The pain was everywhere. It was all of her, turning her inside out from the core.

When she woke up, Sam was crouching next to her, suffering from a bad case of hat hair.

Smiling lazily, she said, "Welcome home, cowboy."

"Hey, Nadine. How are you feeling?"

"Like Castiel just groped my liver," she said. "How do you think? Did you get the ashes?"

"Yeah." He held up an old glass bottle packed full of blackened remains, grinning. "Bit of a long story," he said, studying the contents, "but we got it."

"And now it's time for good little Goggles to go to bed," Dean said, sauntering over, still in his old West duds.

"Says who?" Nadine asked. She was exhausted, but being belligerent for the sake of screwing with Dean was just too much fun.

Dean dropped down to her level and gave her an even stare. "We're gonna pick a fight with the Mother of All Monsters. We need all hands on deck, and we need them on their A-game. So you're gonna get a good night's sleep, and if we need you, we'll let you know. But as far as I'm concerned," he flicked her forehead, "you did your day's work getting us home in one piece."

"Aww, Shamu," she cooed. "You're so sweet when you're not being an ass."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Now go to bed," Dean said. "And don't you make me carry you."

Grinning, too happy, warm and cozy to play snarky, she climbed off the couch and shuffled toward the closet. That was when she saw Castiel lurking in the corner with his arms crossed, recovering from the Winchesters' jaunt through time and space. Life as a Tardis must be rough.

"Hey," she said as she passed him, "didn't see you there. I'm on a mission. Otherwise I'd stop to chat. Goodnight!"

He frowned, his eyebrows dipping together. "Goodnight, Nadine."

"Goodnight."

"Yes, you already…" He saw her smile, and the flicker of a smirk lightened his frown. "Goodnight."

She gave him a thumbs up. "You're getting it. Goodnight, Castiel."

**A/N: In my defense, I just started a new full-time job and polished up a short story for a contest, all while getting my baby plants ready for the garden. I've been a busy little girl. And - look! - the chapters are getting longer again! And the plot has something vaguely resembling a direction! Cool, right? **

**Thanks for the reviews! They jog my muse when it wants to go to bed!**


	9. Arch 1: Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Nine: Your Mom**

The great advantage of traveling by angel was the reduced travel time. The great disadvantage of traveling by angel was the loss of thinking time. Nadine glanced around at the cheery little town, took in the kids on their bikes and the clear toll of a church bell. The sun was shining. All seemed well with the world.

One minute, they'd been in Bobby's living room, the next, they were on the other side of the country. Less than an hour before that, they'd been in the basement, filling shotgun shells with phoenix ash. And chatting it up with old vampire buddies of the Winchesters. Well, one old vampire buddy, anyway. They'd needed a monster, a proper monster with ties to Eve who could tell them where the Mother was holing up that particular afternoon. So Castiel went out searching and brought back Lenore, the Winchesters' ally from way back when. She told them what they needed to know. And she told them how she'd fallen, how she'd killed, how she'd killed again. She told them she really was a monster. And then Cas iced her.

And so, in less than an hour, they were ready to face the Mother of All Monsters.

Nadine was not ready for this. She had been, but then Lenore had popped into the basement, and they'd all discussed monsters and turning and the need to die. And, although the boys knew the difference, they kept glancing at her when they uttered the word 'monster,' like she might transform, like they almost hoped she would. Even Bobby. Because they needed a real monster at the moment, not some screwed up changeling with a talent for arts and crafts. She worked so hard not to be a monster, and it was confusing. They'd never even seen her without her glamour. But they must sense it was there, just under the skin – her true self. But it wasn't supposed to be her true self. She didn't want it to be. She didn't want them to think it was.

And Cas. _"We needed to move this along."_ He'd killed her. He smote Lenore, just as he tried to do when he first met Nadine. All business, no remorse. And it occurred to her for the first time in a long time that she really ought to be more afraid of Castiel than she was. He spared her for a reason, she knew, but she had no idea what it was. Sure, he didn't want to upset the Winchesters, but he was more involved than a third party friend should be. Even Balthazar could see that.

Did he need her to be a monster, too?

She took a deep breath and sank beneath her pack, watching the world press on, clueless, as they raced to save it. Three hunters, an angel, and a monster in sheep's clothing.

There had only been time to grab a bag. Most of her weapons were too bulky – too obvious – and she'd had to leave them behind. No sword, no bow. Now she felt naked and vulnerable, only a pair of daggers in her backpack with some holy water and potent herbs. And, of course, her goggles. In a direct fight, she might be more of a burden than a boon.

When she looked up, she realized they were moving. Bobby led the way across the street to a local diner. Nadine closed her eyes for an instant, fighting back the rising tide of doubts and questions, and hurried after them.

Then things got awkward. The four men slid into a retro vinyl booth, fitting neatly into the four available seats. Unless she pulled up a chair, Nadine's only option was to sit on Dean's lap. She hovered at the end of the table for a minute, clutching the strap of her backpack, tossing sideways glances at the local townspeople (all blissfully unaware of her predicament), and trying to redirect Dean's attention away from his menu. Bobby finally elbowed the dunce, and he looked up at her, startled, like he'd forgotten she was there.

Some days she just felt so valued.

"Uh…" He looked down, like he could magically extend the booth through sheer force of will, then glanced at the available chairs, then back down. "I could, uh…" He half rose, still clutching the menu.

Nadine shook her head and waved him back down. "You know what – forget about it. I'm going to take a stroll, get a feel for the area. See if I can pick up anything fishy."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. He held up his menu. "You don't want to eat anything?"

With the way her stomach was clenched, she doubted she could swallow more than a mouthful and keep it down. "Nah. Not really hungry."

"Meet back here in thirty minutes," Dean said. It was a direct order, and Nadine rolled her eyes. "You have your cell phone?"

"Yes, dufus."

"Pfft." Dean relaxed back in his seat and returned to the menu.

Bobby squinted at her. "You alright, girl?"

"I'm fine." She shrugged. "Just tense, I guess. I miss my bow. And my sword. And, you know, all the other useful crap you made me leave behind."

"Stop whining and take your walk," Dean said. "Big baby."

"Be careful, Nadine," Castiel said.

She smiled. Tight. Quick. A cute little lie. "Of course." She sounded so chipper when she was trying to throw them off the scent. She wondered how long it would take them to read her like she was learning to read them. "See you in a while, then."

Before anyone could suggest the obvious, Nadine pushed her way out the door, setting the bell ringing. A girl behind the counter sang out, "Have a nice day!" and Nadine forced herself to be polite and give a grimacing smile over her shoulder. Stupid perky people and their stupid perky manners.

"Yeah…you, too." Nadine wondered if the girl even realized she wasn't a paying customer – nary a bite had been eaten, nary a cent paid.

It was undeniably pleasant outside, which was weird, all things considered. This was supposed to be purgatory on earth, but all Nadine could see was a butt-load of excessively normal people doing excessively normal things. Like shopping. And working in shops. And driving cars – past shops. She remembered shopping – back in the days before she made most of her own junk and visited odd little holes in the wall where they sold interesting and generally illegal components of said junk. She stopped in front of a book shop with a window full of young adult novels and self help books. Once upon a time, she thought she could pretend to be normal and not face the consequences. Her forehead came to rest against the glass and she shut her eyes. Pretending like she was now.

Her gut still said staying with the Winchesters was the wrong decision. Someone would get hurt, and it would inevitably be her fault. They were more prepared for the ugly things that followed in her wake, but her integration in the foster system had been due to something worse than crack-head parents. And she got to relearn that lesson in high school. How many times did fate have to teach her? She was more than bad luck. She was a walking death sentence.

It wasn't the first time she'd considered leaving. Just a few months – then it would be safe… or at least safer. But she'd let them get close, and now, monster or not, they actually needed her. It would be so easy to just walk away, find a bus station, pick up her stuff from Bobby's while they dealt with the Mother of All, and just vanish. She could do it. Hiding from the angels might be tricky. Castiel had touched her soul. Twice. There had to be some kind of connection from that. Or maybe she just wanted there to be. Any tether to the world of Winchesters and angels and grumpy old hunters was precious. And that was the real problem. She valued them, and she was too selfish to just let go again.

Pushing away from the window, she continued down the street, peering down dark alleys that promised scum and villainy of the roughest kind, hoping to find a good monster or two. But the only monster she bumped into stared back at her from a broken mirror propped against a dumpster. More than bad luck.

After that, her search went from anti-climactic to downright boring. Her thoughts kept chewing on themselves, but that was the only action to be had. Everything was so calm and regular, she began to wonder if the town made its living selling prunes. It was too calm, really. It triggered a flight instinct deep in her psyche, but she was on a mission, and she knew things were supposed to be janked up, so she ignored it.

She arrived back at the diner just as Bobby and Sam stepped out.

"Cas is being blocked," Sam said. "He's completely powerless." He shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded at her. "Any… similar problems?"

Nadine blinked, cocked her head, and planted a fist on her hip. "What could block Castiel? He's an angel."

"The Mother," Bobby said. "Don't know how, though. So…? Problems on your end?"

She puckered her lips. "Haven't tried." She glanced at all the pedestrians and gestured to a nearby alley. "Let's go somewhere a little more private. Too many people out here."

"Right," said Bobby.

They trooped around the corner, and Sam hovered near the mouth of the alley watching for inconvenient passersby while Bobby stepped farther down the narrow lane with Nadine. She shook herself out, loosening up for the big show, and winked out at the first try.

"Looks like everything's still in working order," Bobby said as she winked back to visibility.

"Yeah." She ran her fingers along the strap of her pack, considering. "I don't get it. Why would the Mother of All be able to block angels, but not fey?"

"No idea." Bobby dug in his pocket and fished out a slip of paper. He handed it to Nadine and she scanned the address written there as he explained. "Doctor called in an unidentified disease. We're going to check his place. Dean and Cas are investigating the office. Think you can handle the victim's house? Guy had roommates. Do us a favor and take a peek. We'll rendezvous there and you can fill us in."

She pocketed the note. "Sure."

Bobby's face scrunched up in that adorable way it did when he was trying to deal with something sappy, and Nadine realized he was about to ask the inevitable: Are you okay? But she really wasn't, and she didn't feel up to constructing a feasible lie, so she beat him to the punch. "I'll see you there. Don't dawdle, now."

The awkward face (so similar to Dean's) twisted into the more comfortable sarcastic leer that was Bobby's de facto facial arrangement. It suited him, Nadine thought, much better. It was a much safer sort of face. "Don't do anything stupid before we get there. My hands are full enough with the rest of these idjits."

Crisis averted, she gave him a quick smile. "No problem." She grabbed her goggles from her bag and slipped them on. "I'm a ninja. Now you see me…" she winked out, "… now you don't."

"Cute."

"I thought so."

.O.O.O.

Her assignment was more interesting than she'd thought it would be.

The boys didn't take long, and Nadine trotted towards them, still invisible, as they gathered at the corner. She could tell the second they saw one of the house's occupants by the way their faces froze.

As she winked visible again, she hit the mental reset button for them.

"Dude, it's like Star Wars in there. The prequels. I think the Mother is trying to start the Clone Wars again."

It worked. "Oh, really? Really? The prequels?" Dean sneered. "Come on, Goggles, I thought you were classier than that."

"I'm sorry," she grinned, "is my geek showing?"

Attempting to redirect the conversation to a more professional level, and still staring fixedly at the house, Sam asked, "So, what, shifter?"

"I don't know what we're looking at," Bobby admitted.

"Alright," Sam said, still waiting for another duplicate to appear. "Dean and me are gonna go in. You three stay here and watch the door. If something comes out, shoot it."

"Eh, best guess – silver bullets," Dean said, reaching into his coat.

Voice soft and uncomfortable, Cas confessed, "I'm fairly unpracticed with a firearm."

Dean looked at the group, letting his eyes fidget through his frustration. Turning to Cas, he said, "You know who whines?" He looked down at the angel with a condescending face. "Babies."

Castiel opened his mouth to further explain himself, but the brothers were already in motion, and he was left to swallow back his words and watch the door with the old hunter and the fey. Beside him, Nadine smirked fondly at the brothers' backs. Then she shook her head. Shit. She hadn't even left yet and she was getting all sentimental. In order to distract herself, she turned to the angel. "Sam said Eve's giving you some trouble."

He glanced at her briefly before letting his eyes sweep the neighborhood, alert for any trouble. "Yes." His voice was lower than usual and a bit rougher. His chin was tilted up, a physical compensation, Nadine realized, for his lack of confidence. "I am…blocked."

Now she regretted bring it up. No one liked to be reminded of their limits, temporary or otherwise. She should've pestered Bobby instead. But what was done, was done, and she did her best to fix it as best she could. Resting her hand on his arm, she warmed up her best smile and said, "Hey, think of it this way: it's my turn to take care of you, alright?"

He started to speak. Reconsidered. Closed his mouth again. He looked down at the hand on his arm, bemused. For a minute he seemed stumped, unsure how to proceed. He knew there was a protocol here, but he had no idea what it was. Taking mercy on him, Nadine softened her smile and said, "It's a joke, Castiel. You will always be more bad ass than me, and that's a fact. Though," she glanced at the house, letting her hand fall away naturally from his shoulder, "I'm still here to help. Don't forget."

"I won't forget," he assured her. He sounded relieved to have finally answered her, and his voice was a shade lighter. In her efforts to distract herself, she must have distracted him, too.

"Here they come," Bobby said, nodding to where Sam and Dean were emerging from the house.

.O.O.O.

"I don't get it. A bunch of regular Joes wake up shifters? What the hell?"

Bobby huffed, frustrated and befuddled. "Shifters usually run in families. This looks like an infection." He paused and glanced quickly between his two boys. "Nobody touched nothin'?"

Dean rocked back. "I'm bathing in Purell tonight."

"So they said they met a girl," Sam said.

"It's gotta be Eve," said Dean.

"Well how would she do this?" Castiel asked.

"Um," Nadine raised her hand. "Mother of All Monsters?" She shrugged, letting her hand drop.

"Mommy monster," Bobby said, shrugging. "Make more."

"No, no, no, no." Dean frowned at the grass. "Cas's got a good point. I mean, if she's gonna make a shifter army, why make one that's sick, gooey and dying?"

"Add that to the pile a crap that don't make sense," Bobby said.

"So should we hit the bar?" Sam asked.

.O.O.O.

They kicked their way into the bar where the first victim had spent his last night on earth and immediately stumbled on one of the grisliest scenes Nadine had ever encountered. Bodies were everywhere, each in a different state of shredding. Hardly any furniture remained unbroken, and blood was splashed liberally over all.

"Well, the sheriff's a mook, but _still_," Bobby said, surveying the carnage, "you'd think he'd notice this many missing folks."

Each member of the team drifted towards a different body, automatically dividing to cover the most ground. Nadine stood over a young man in a shredded football jersey. "Either Eve's having some fun," she said, "or somebody's fiancé found out what was _really_ happening at the bachelor party."

Bobby made a noncommittal snort.

By the bar, Dean was taking a more handsy approach the investigation, using a rag to push back the victim's lips. "Got a vamp over here," he said. Reaching down the corpse, he plucked up the dead woman's hand and revealed a long spike. "Nope. Scratch that. We got a wraith." He stood up, unable to take his eyes off the monstrosity at his feet. "What the hell?" He looked at Bobby, utterly baffled. "What has teeth and a spike?"

"Never seen that in my life," Bobby said, equally surprised.

Outraged, Dean said, "Okay, so Eve's makin' hybrids now?"

"Looks like," Bobby said. He was almost breathless, and he seemed so openly amazed, glancing around at the bodies, that he seemed vulnerable. Nadine crouched on the balls of her feet and let her wrists dangle over her knees as she surveyed the victim before her. She knew the pieces were there. It was just a question of putting them together.

"Well, the question is why," Dean said. "I mean what would she want with a… whadda you call these things?"

"Well congrats," Bobby said with a little more of his usual sarcasm. "You discovered it, you get to name it."

"Jefferson Starships," Dean announced. Sam looked at him, disbelieving, and Dean grinned. "Eh? Because they're horrible and hard to kill." He swaggered in place as he said it, pleased with his joke, but he got nothing except blank frowns in return. It didn't faze him in the least.

Shaking her head, Nadine tuned out their conversation, focusing instead on the unnatural oddities before her. Thoughtfully, she donned her goggles and adjusted the lenses. The monster was a strange piece of work, tied together with wisps of things that didn't blend at all. It was like Frankenstein's monster, judging by the tangled auras clinging to it. There was a fresh human soul, of which only the faintest glow remained. Then there was a cocktail of ugly magic and corrupted power. It was almost as if the monster had been put on the human like a patch-work coat – only it was a very evil patchwork coat that grew into the wearer. She'd never seen anything like it.

"Hands where I can see 'em!" Nadine, crouched behind a table, shoved back her goggles and peeked over a chair to assess the newest threat. It was the mook. And he was armed. Not such terrible trouble, except for the fact that he had back-up, also armed.

Dean, out of Rent-A-Cop's line of sight, crept behind the bar while the other three men raised their hands. Nadine did the practical thing and winked out.

"Now this is not what it looks like," Castiel tried to explain.

"Look," Bobby said, "we're the feds."

"Yeah?" the cop asked, moving in with his gun drawn. "Feds are not allowed to do this." Addressing his two back-up singers, without taking his eyes off his catch, he said, "Cuff 'em." Then, "Turn around."

Bobby and Sam both looked peeved. Human authorities were a hassle with which they were well acquainted, and, as always, law enforcement chose the opportune moment to burst in, make all the wrong assumptions, and make their lives that much harder. Castiel looked like his frustration was being completely overruled by his helpless confusion. He wasn't used to being bossed around by the police, and it seemed he didn't know quite what to do with himself.

For all their bumbling, the cops were efficient when it came to making arrests, and they had their three hostages hustled out the door in no time at all.

Dean crept out from behind the bar and peered around, eyes wide. "Nadine?" he called in a stage whisper. "You still here?"

"I'm your magically invisible sidekick," she said, appearing a foot away from his shoulder. "Of course I'm still here."

He jumped sideways and immediately tried to cover for it, bending over and hunting around for the weapons bag. "Well, good," he said once he'd found his target. "Here." He dug through it and, grinning, fished out his prize. "Have a machete." Still smiling, he handed it over.

"Thanks," Nadine said, pinching the handle and holding the nasty metal thing at a distance. "I think."

"You'll be grateful once we catch up with the Jefferson Starships."

"Oh my word, Dean. That name…" She paused. "And you call me a dork."

"That's because you are."

"Well, then, you're a nerd."

"You're delusional."

"How's the caterpillar? Seen him recently in your journey through Wonderland?"

"Dork."

"Bitch." She had to glance away to hide her smile. There they were, trying to keep the world from ending, and they were going at it like a couple high school girls. "Come on. Let's go rescue the damsels in distress."

.O.O.O.

As expected, the cops took their prisoners back to the police station. The cop car was crap, though, and it took Dean less than a minute to catch up with them in the nice little ride they 'borrowed' from outside the bar. He watched with Nadine from the corner as the rest of their team was marched inside. Nodding towards the soon-to-be chain gang, Nadine asked, "Should I…?" She winked out.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Go on after them." He grabbed his own weapon. "I'll be right behind you."

Nadine nodded, realized he couldn't see her, and scoffed at herself. "Sure thing." She stepped out the car, rejoicing in the disturbed look on Dean's face as the door swung open and closed without a corporeal hand to guide it. She would never get tired of that. "See you inside."

"Will I see _you_?" Dean asked.

"If you ask nicely."

She pulled her goggles down and set off for the station. As she trotted toward the door, she realized she could see the same patchy weave of auras that she'd seen in the bar trailing into the police station. Human tangled with ugly, tangled with uglier. And that must mean… "Aw, crap." She doubled her speed and pushed past the doors just as Sam stuttered, "J-Jefferson Starships!"

The room was thrown into chaos, and for half a second Nadine couldn't pick between targets. There were three boys who needed saving, each with his own personal Starship going for the throat. But Bobby and Sam both had experience fighting in handcuffs against an opponent with superior strength – at least enough experience to let them last another second or two. Cas on the other hand… well, she might not say it out loud on account of his feelings, but without his powers… he really was a damsel in distress. The cop who'd been escorting him shoved him against the wall, baring his teeth, and Nadine leapt into action. She struck out with the machete, chopping the monster's head in two with one clean stroke. As the top of the head fell back, she turned visible again. She'd taken one out with the element of surprise, but she needed the others to pay attention. If they recognized her as the immediate threat, they'd back of the victims at hand. As it turned out, there was no need for her dramatics, because even as she appeared before Castiel's eyes, Dean crashed into the room and offed the monster going for his brother. The sheriff was quickly subdued, saved for interrogation, and Nadine handed her machete off to Castiel with relief.

"So," she said, sidling up to Dean as Sam and Bobby wrestled the remaining monster into a chair, "admit it – I was kind of awesome just now."

He shrugged as much with his face as he did with his shoulders. "Meh. You were okay. I have great timing, though. I know how to make an entrance."

Nadine refused to let it slide. It wasn't often she could one-up a Winchester, and life with Dean was a constant arms race. Swinging around so they were toe to toe, she looked up at him, chin up and smirk sharp. Both of them crossed their arms. Shit just got real.

"Dude, admit it – you've been owned."

Dean gave her a smile full of teeth. "Not today, Goggles."

"I do not understand," Castiel said, glancing between the two. "Whenever I… 'get in your space'," he provided the air quotes, "you inform me of the violation. But Nadine is in your space, and you haven't rebuked her." His expression grew more confused. His own confusion annoyed him. "Am I missing a reference?"

Dean's grin was wicked. He lifted his index finger. "First difference: she's a girl. I like them in my space. Second difference," he raised the next finger, "you're intimidating. She's like an angry kitten. Cute, but harmless."

"How about I use your pansy ass for archery practice and we'll see how harmless I am," Nadine said.

"How about the two of you put the ruler away and try bein' useful for a change," Bobby groused. "We're on a job here, in case you forgot."

Nadine stepped away from Dean and sank her hands in her pockets, properly chastised – for the moment. "Sorry, Bobby." She peered at the trussed-up Jefferson Starship and the knife Bobby was toying with. "Uh, speaking of being useful…"

When she didn't continue, Bobby looked at her over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows. "Yes? Being useful? _Please_ continue."

She smirked. "I'm gonna see if I can track down anymore monsters in the area. MaybeI can follow them back to Eve."

"How and why?" Dean asked gruffly.

Nadine counted off the answers on her fingers. "Goggles. Creepy gross auras. Because I can."

The guys looked at each other, and Sam broke the stalemate with a shrug. "She's still got her powers. The deputies sure didn't see her coming. I actually think she'd be safe enough on her own to do some recon for us."

"Going solo on the enemy's home turf is never a good idea," Dean argued.

"Sam's got a point," Bobby said. "No point wasting one of the only aces we've got left."

Dean played his last hand. "Cas? What do you think? Is sending Goggles here on a solo monster hunt a good plan?"

The angel, suddenly the center of attention, shifted under so many stares and fixed his gaze on the floor. "No, I don't think it's a particularly good plan."

Dean looked at them and smiled.

"But I think it's our only plan," Castiel amended.

Dean spun on him with utter betrayal scrawled across his face. "Really, Cas? I thought you had my back on this."

"He is right, you know," Sam said. "It's not like we've got a lot of other options to choose from."

"Well one of us should go with her," Dean insisted. "Nobody goes alone."

"Er, just saying, but the whole point of this is that I'm _invisible_. Unless you've suddenly gained wicked awesome super powers similar to my own," Nadine shrugged, "then I'm really better off solo on this one. I don't even need to take a wookie with me."

Rubbing his face, Dean took a slow breath, and Nadine knew she'd won. "You just get nerdier every day, don't you?"

"If it's a good day, yeah." She punched his arm. "Cheer up. I'll be back."

"I thought you said I was supposed to cheer up."

"Har har." She crossed to the door. "Play nice with the monsters, now, and don't get killed while I'm gone."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sure thing, honey."

"Alright, dear."

"Now you're just making me queasy."

Nadine laughed, a genuine smile melting over her face as she glanced back at them all, the boys, over her shoulder. "See ya around."

Happy to have the last word, and eager to keep it that way, she slipped out, disappearing as she let the glass door swing closed behind her.

Outside, the world was just as bright and cheery as it had been when they arrived, the little corner of heaven ignorant of the monsters creeping out of the closet and eating their children. It wasn't so different from any other town, at least in that regard, but Nadine had never seen a place so _happy_. It was alarming like a television show. All an act put on for an attentive audience. And in many cases, it really was an act. The first person she came across – an elderly man with a brown paper grocery sack and a sweater vest – was a Jefferson Starship. The twisted aura oozed from him, and Nadine could practically smell the rush job Eve had pulled on the guy. No one with that kind of experience put together such shoddy work unless she was in a serious hurry. It was flat out sloppy, and Nadine eyed it with distaste.

She followed the man back to his home, where she found a lot of pictures of a younger version of the man with a woman she didn't recognize. After a few minutes watching the man unpack his groceries, she decided to leave the poor widower alone. He wasn't human anymore, and chances were high that he'd kill if he got hungry enough, but he must not be a very successful monster. Otherwise, Nadine was sure, Eve wouldn't have him on a grocery run.

And that meant the Mother wasn't worried about man power. Closing her eyes, Nadine berated herself for not donning her goggles the second they got into town. Untold numbers of Jefferson Starships could have been strolling along, window shopping, and she would never have known. The sheriff's office had been turned so they could be useful, but it looked like drumming up the militia wasn't high on Eve's to-do list. And of course that meant it was about the experiments – screwing around with a new recipe for monster-a-la-freak. Coughing clones and Jefferson Starships. What else was in town?

Nadine was suddenly anxious for the boys. She was the only one with super powers at the moment (unless Sam's incredibly long hair counted), and they would need her if enough of Eve's children got hungry. Maybe she shouldn't have gone solo. They might need her. Decided, she left the widower's place and started back the way she came. The sun was low on the horizon, and the streets were emptying quickly. And so she was surprised when a group of three Jefferson Starships came strolling down the street. No, not strolling – patrolling.

Nadine looked, slowed, and stopped as her mind danced through a series of questions. Why did Eve need a patrol? Was her previous theory incorrect? Were these simply the exception to the norm? Would they head back to headquarters after their round? There was only one way to get answers, and although it forced her to abandon all home of returning to the Winchesters within the hour, she decided it was worth the delay.

She followed them.

They wound their way through town, eyeing small children hungrily and making obvious targets of themselves, and Nadine put a greater distance between herself and her quarry. They were being just a little too obvious. Either they were very lacking in self control, or they were looking for a particular kind of attention. It dawned on her that this might be a trap, but she was still invisible and she still needed to know what was happening. So she ignored her better judgment and followed the three as they threaded their way back to the heart of the town, where they disappeared down the alley backing the little diner where the boys had begun their investigations. Irony. It was a bitch.

But her curiosity was not quite sated. A lot of Starships had been through, and recently. Were they going in the diner or one of the buildings on the adjacent side of the alley? Or was the alley just a short cut to another street? Or was there a secret bunker under the trash bins? Whatever it was, it was drawing a lot of the weird little cretins. The narrow street was awash in wisps of patchy auras left behind by passing Starships. She refused to go back empty handed. Just a few more minutes, and she'd have a definite location of _something_ to toss in Dean's smug face. What could she say? Bad choices were her forte.

She was maybe halfway down the alley when the net dropped on her. Shadows sprang out, and the last thing Nadine was aware of was catching an almighty crack on the back of her head. Then she dropped into the muzzy darkness of unconsciousness.

.O.O.O.

She woke up with a Starship on each arm, one clutching her goggles in his free hand, the other holding her knife. They were in the back alley, standing in front of a door, utterly still as they waited for a command. Under the Mother's influence, Nadine realized, they were almost like automatons, reprogrammed minute by minute as suited the software designer. No wonder Lenore had been so screwed up. As they were standing there, Nadine worked on fishing together the scattered bits of her consciousness and reflected on all the subtle little ways Dean would let her know how many kinds of idiot she was in the coming days.

Who was she kidding? Dean was about as subtle as a strip-tease. He was gonna rip her a new one for this.

All of a sudden her escorts began to move, half dragging Nadine between them as she strung enough coordination together to stumble along. They went inside the diner. Filled as it was with cheap chrome décor, the room did not welcome Nadine with open arms. The iron stink bit her senses the second she was hustled through the door, her sensitivity increased by her recent bout with quasi-consciousness. But the Starships herding her gave her no time to adjust, only continued through the back (full of iron tools and machines) towards the customer seating area at the front. They popped through the swinging doors that led to the kitchen together, and Nadine was surprised to find the diner well-attended. There were people _everywhere_, and it seemed sort of obvious to just drag her through… but there were her boys, all held by Starships, Sam and Dean at the counter, Castiel and Bobby in the aisle. And everyone in the booths was just watching them… Starships. All starships.

Well…

"Hey, Dean," she said faintly, trying to smile around her mounting headache, "I found the Starships' nest."

"We got here first," he replied.

She nodded towards the kitchen. "I've been out back." With the Starships holding her arms, it was difficult to shrug, but she did her best. "I wanted to make an entrance."

"And you're right not time."

Nadine took stock of the woman who had just addressed her from behind the counter – pretty, blonde, a little old for a waitress, but she wore the uniform well… and she made the hair on the back of Nadine's neck stand on end.

"You must be Eve," she said, trying to disguise the tremor in her voice with a blasé tone.

Smiling, Eve canted her head. "Nadine, isn't it? Take a seat."

The goons holding her didn't give her much of a choice, and they physically lifted her onto a bar stool next to Sam. Where she sat. Very still. Hoping to magically develop powers of teleportation.

"It's been a long time since I've met a fey," Eve said, strolling along the bar. "They locked the door to the tree house. Snobby brats didn't want to play anymore. But you want to play, don't you, Nadine?"

"Hey," Dean snapped, trying to shrug off the goon behind him. "Back off. You've got beef with us? Leave her out of it."

"Just because she's a volunteer doesn't mean she's off limits," Eve said. "Interrupting is rude, by the way." She braced herself against the counter, eyes twinkling as she returned to Nadine. "I assume you haven't told them about Beltaine."

Nadine sat rigidly in her chair, refusing to let the Mother of All Monsters drag her into a conversation. Fortunately, she seemed to enjoy the sound of her own voice.

"Beltaine?" Sam asked.

Steady breaths. Control. It was true. She hadn't told them. She didn't want them to know. They didn't need to. The Mother and her freaky motherly instinct…

"Beltaine," Eve said, turning her attention to Sam, condescending. "The one night when the way to Tir na nÓg is open. The fey have free reign to go back and forth between their hideaway and the human realm. That's the night they collect changelings – like little Nadine here. Now, how old are you, sweetie? Twenty-three? Twenty-four?" She cocked her head, her smile knowing, oozing sympathy. "This is your last year, right?"

"Last…? Nadine. What the hell is she talking about?" Dean demanded.

"Yes, Nadine," Eve said. "What am I talking about? Share with the class now, honey. Speak up so they can hear you in the back." She stood back and folded her arms, looking on expectantly.

Nadine closed her eyes and tried to control her nerves. She felt like she was going to be sick. "It's nothing," she said.

"Oh," Eve said, looking at the two hunters she had trapped at the counter. "Isn't she precious? I see why you keep her. It must be convenient – having someone around to clean up your messes – someone who never shares their messes with you. Isn't that right, Dean? Isn't she convenient?"

"You'd know all about convenience, wouldn't you?" Dean retorted.

Eve shook her head, smiling the serene smirk of a mother dealing with naughty (but cute) children. "She is good," she said to Dean. "Six years dodging the Hunt isn't easy. I can count the changelings that made it a full seven on one hand. You ought to be proud of her."

"So, what do you think, sweetie? Wanna have a cat fight?" Eve leaned down on her elbows, bringing herself down to eye level as she smiled for Nadine. "No? Well, how does that book go? Don't punish the baby for the sins of its parents? I'm not vindictive. Not really." She twirled a lock of Nadine's hair around her finger. "But you've got a strange taste in friends. A pack of hunters? And an angel? You're just busy building bridges, aren't you?" With her finger still wrapped in Nadine's hair, she stroked her thumb along her cheek. Nadine snarled and jerked back, but her hair was like a leash, binding her close to the Mother of All. "They're going to use you up, you know. It might be fun now, you might think they care, but when push comes to shove, you're going overboard." Her lashes lowered, and she nearly purred as she continued. "But I think you already know that. I think…" She leaned in, whispering in Nadine's ear, "…you want to be all gone, so there's nothing left at all. Am I right?"

Pulling away, she looked back at Dean. Her voice resumed its reasoning tone. "Say yes… and I won't have to play mean with your littlest tagalong, okay?"

Dean glowered at her. "Eat me."

Eve shrugged. "Okay. If that's the way you want to play… I'm game." Releasing Nadine's hair, she dragged her fingernail along Nadine's hairline, pausing at her temple and huffing. "I think you need to work things out with your mommy and daddy, kiddo." The nail sank into Nadine's face, and she strangled a scream. Eve drew her finger along, cutting a pattern into the skin, and Nadine loosed a gurgling growl as her own fingernails sank into her palms.

"Goggles!"

"Nadine!"

In another moment it was over, and Eve pulled her finger out of Nadine's skin. She smiled as she licked off the blood. "I hope your boyfriend thinks scars are sexy. Oh, but you probably don't have a boyfriend, do you? The Courts would kill him, hm? Too bad. Looks like you'll never have a chance to get to third base on your own terms now."

"What did you do?" Bobby demanded.

"I marked her," Eve said. "The Hunt will smell that from the other side of the globe. No hiding this year. How fast can you run?"

Nadine reeled in her seat. Without the goons supporting her she would definitely have taken a swan dive off the stool. The Mother's power was thick and heavy, acrid stuff that absorbed itself into her blood. Nadine wanted to rip her own face off, but she was sluggish and heavy from the magical assault, and she was finding it difficult to maintain even a basic glamour under the spell's influence. She was bare to the world, naked in the most vulnerable sense. All she could do was slump toward the counter and hold her precious illusions together. Sam was trying to say something to her, but the fog was too thick for her to understand him. Her eyes were open, but she was too consumed with her inner battles to take in anything they registered.

There was movement and sound, and the weight of the Starships on her arms disappeared, leaving Nadine grateful that she was already up close and personal with the bar. Their acquaintance had been a little more cordial than it might have been if the goons released her while she was still upright and dizzy. In fact, she might have met the floor, but she considered it beneath her to make such acquaintances, so she counted her blessings – which in this case happened to be the counter.

The next thing she was aware of, Bobby's hand cut off her vision, and his rough callouses scratched over her cheeks. A bright light followed, flashing hot through the diner, and a chorus of swiftly-ended screams chorused in response. Bobby removed his hand, and Nadine drew herself together as best she could, leveraging herself upright and refocusing with long, slow blinks. Dean's face slipped into her field of view, eyes tense and focused, as he clapped a hand on her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" He asked it like he was repeating himself, like he'd already asked. But Nadine couldn't remember hearing his voice, even dimly, since the Mother finished her work.

And speaking of the Mother… Nadine's eyes tracked to the floor, where a girl in the same waitress uniform was lying in a pool of black ooze. Disgusting.

"Hey." Dean gave her a shake, and she brought her eyes back to his face. "Are you okay?"

She brushed her fingers over her temple, where the symbol was etched in her skin, and she shuddered, trapped between a nod and a shake of her head. At last she said, "I'm not sure yet."

Dean nodded, understand that this was the best he would get under the circumstances, and backed away so his baby brother could examine the little wound. But Nadine was tired of answering questions she wasn't prepared to explain, and she batted him away, ignoring the disapproving bitch face he leveled at her.

"I just need some time. I need to figure out… I just need some time."

"Sure," Bobby said. "But then we've got some questions. Like what the hell she doodled on your face."

"And all this Hunt crap," Dean added. "Seriously, Goggles. The hell haven't you told us?"

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Nadine snorted and said, "Books, Winchester. I could fill books with all the crap I haven't told you."

Dean was miffed, and it showed in the clipped way he spoke. "And why haven't you spilled?"

"What? You don't think I have good reasons?"

"Sure. I also know the road to hell is paved with 'em."

"Those would be _intentions_, Dean. The road to hell is paved with good _intentions_."

"Same difference."

**A/N: I dropped off the map for a while, but I came back with a big, fat chapter for you! And stuff actually happened! Yay! Just a heads up, there might be a delay before I get the next chapter up (depending on how late my muse keeps me up this week), because I'm going to a con next weekend, and I'll be pretty busy getting ready for that. **

**Thank you so my loverly reviewers! You guys make my day and remind me why I keep writing fics. **


	10. Arch 1: Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Ten: Monstrous**

The cot was hard. The springs practically poked through the fabric. The fan's rattle was a constant irritation. Bobby had poor taste in décor. And the iron stink was so bad Nadine could hardly breathe without retching. All of a sudden, the panic room didn't seem like such a great idea anymore. The iron was stifling. She couldn't breathe, could barely think. Her stomach writhed and coiled, folding and twisting itself into knots as the metal sapped her appetite.

She'd been there for three days, ever since the Mother of All carved the summoning symbol into her face. The scrapes were still red and raw, impervious to all magic and only saved from infection by the tender ministrations of Bobby Singer and his whiskey. The boys left the door open, but if wasn't like any of the air around Bobby's place was particularly fresh, and Nadine struggled against the overwhelming sensation of suffocation every time she took a breath. She couldn't stay there much longer, Hunt or no Hunt. She just couldn't.

But what else was there to do? Leaving was always an option. Maybe it was time she got smart and moved on.

The plan was to keep Nadine in the iron cell, where other fey would have trouble smelling her out or reaching her. They had time. It was another month until Beltaine. The Hunt would only be released on that one night. If she could let the trail grow cold, stay locked in an iron prison for thirty odd days, it was always possible they wouldn't sniff her out. Possible, but highly unlikely.

The Hunt were the oldest of the old, second in power only to the Morrigan. All those years, all that power – she might as well pull a blanket over her head and pray the boogie man didn't find her. The panic room wouldn't do shit once the Hunt was released. It would probably keep other fey away until then, but once Beltaine rolled around, well, then Bobby Singer's old house would see a battle like it had never seen before. There would be collateral damage. Dean. Sam. Bobby. They would be hurt, likely even killed for standing in the way of the Hunt. If the angels intervened they might stand a chance, but Nadine wasn't even sure a lone angel could hold back the wrath of the Courts' mightiest warriors. And Castiel had his hands full already…

She'd explained the basics to the boys when they returned to Bobby's, after Sam and Bobby had voiced their doubts about Cas, after she and Dean defended him. After that little show-down, she'd only had the presence of mind to share the simplest of explanations: if the Morrigan were the Fey judge and jury, the Hunt were the posse sent to bring in the criminals. The hunt were all Lords and Ladies, all noble, all filled with the power only thousands of years practicing magic could bestow. On Beltaine, they would break through the veil between worlds and track down changelings and wrong-doers, leveling anything that dared stand in their path.

She shuddered as her magic fluxed. A shiver wracked through her, and with an almighty pop, her glamour failed. She groaned and buried her head in her arms, hiding behind her knees. Really, enough was enough. This wouldn't work, and she was doing nothing but weakening herself by remaining in the panic room.

The only question was what to do once she left it.

Footsteps on the creaky stairs alerted her to approaching guests, and she tried to pull herself even lower behind her legs. This was just what she needed. A peep show.

Step up, my boy, step right on up and see the monster in all her gruesome glory! What horrors! How bizarre! That's right, my boy, step up!

"Goggles," Dean said. "How y'doin'?"

"Fine," she said, still folded up like a bad piece of origami. "Just fine. Go away now, please?"

"Why?" His tone carried all the questions he didn't bother putting into words: _You sure? You okay? When did you get into yoga?_

"Peachy. Ta-ta, now."

"Hey." He stepped into the room, and Nadine counted the quiet reports of shoes kissing floor until they stopped, and she knew if she reached out she'd be able to touch him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin'."

"Bull."

"Seriously. Just go away, alright?"

"Goggles, look at me."

Petulantly, she pulled her knees even closer. "No."

Dean scoffed, exasperated. "Why not?"

"Because I didn't put on make-up this morning. Now scoot, Winchester."

"No," he said, copying her childish tone.

"One of us needs to be a grown-up," she reminded him.

"Nah, that's what Sam's for. Now look at me, damnit."

"Will you go away if I do?"

"Sure."

"Promise not to scream?"

"Uh… sure?"

This was another bad idea, but Dean was going to win this fight, and Nadine was almost too tired to care. Almost. With grudging lethargy, she unwound herself and glared at the hunter over the tops of her knees. Dean started and took an unintentional step back, and Nadine abandoned all defense and just sat up, letting him stare at her true fey form. She'd spent enough time glaring into a mirror to know what he saw. Thin and big eyed like some novelty child's doll, her figure defied the basic precepts of human anatomy. Deep teal vines wound in convoluted patterns over her skin. Colorless eyes. The complexion of a corpse. And scars – scars from every doorknob, hinge, chair, faucet or toy that had ever burned her. He'd seen the Lady before they killed her, but not well. This was his first proper eyeful of fey physiology.

She met his stare with her fiercest scowl. "Done gawking?"

"Y-yeah." He seemed taken aback, clearly surprised. Nadine wasn't sure whether or not that pleased her. She wanted to get back at him for forcing her to reveal herself; she wanted to use her appearance for its full shock value. But on the other hand, there was the reason she hadn't wanted to reveal herself – the distanced look of a hunter that was rising in his eyes. Dean, for all his qualities, was a little stuck on the obvious. When she wasn't obviously a monster, it was easy to pretend she wasn't one. But when she looked like this… well, that was another matter entirely.

"Good."

Shooting a quick nod her direction, he backed away until he reached the door, where he finally dared to turn his back and leave. He didn't try to be obvious about it, but her appearance had triggered his hunting reflexes, and a hunter never turned his back on a monster.

Once he was gone, Nadine flopped back on the cot and stared at the fan. He wouldn't have to worry about having his back to the monster for long. It was time the monster turned her back on him.

She gave him a few hours to settle down and share or not share his experience as he saw fit before she emerged from the basement. By then she'd regained control of her magic well enough to assume her usual appearance. Upstairs, Sam and Bobby were bent over their books. Dean was grabbing a beer from the fridge. At her sudden appearance, Sam blinked, frowned, and asked, "Uh, Nadine? Why aren't you in the panic room?"

She strolled idly to his side, peeking down at the old text he was studying. Old lore gathered about the Hunt from Scotland. A glance to the side confirmed that Bobby was working on the same subject, only from Scandinavian sources. She tried to ignore the way Dean tensed as she approached his brother. He tried to shake it off with a long drink of his beer, but Nadine had seen the defensive stance he'd assumed, even momentarily, and it strengthened her conviction.

"It was too stuffy down there," she sniffed. "I need some fresh air."

"Can't imagine why," Bobby said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You alright?"

That question got redundant after a while, especially when no one who asked could actually fix anything. "I'm great. Just queasy, grumpy, and dizzy."

"The other four dwarves still on their way?" Bobby asked.

Nadine grimaced at him. "You think you're so cute."

"It's the beard."

Dean cleared his throat, rubbing his fingers along the edge of his beer's label. "Not to rush you or anything, but wasn't there a reason you were staying down there?"

"Yeah." She straightened, looking him dead in the eye. "But no amount of iron will shield me from the Hunt, and leaving me to steam in there for a month will reduce me to the efficacy level of an amoeba. All in all," she shrugged, "we're better off with me fighting fit, right?"

Dean made a noncommittal sound and looked away, leaving Sam to pick up the reins of the conversation.

"Well," he said, trying to sort out a plan as he spoke, "we can't camp here if you're not hidden."

"Sure ya can," Bobby said. "I haven't redecorated the pantry."

"What I mean," Sam said, "is that we'll be bringing a lot of fights to your door, and that will just wear everyone down."

"So we hit the road," Dean surmised.

"Yeah," said Sam. "I think it's best we keep moving." His eyes tracked up to Nadine. "What do you think?"

She smiled. "That's just what I was going to suggest. The best way to stay out of trouble is to not be there when it arrives. If we're moving, the nasty beasties should all follow us, and we should be able to outrun most of them easy."

"Most?" Dean asked.

"Well, not the Hunt, obviously," Nadine said, lifting her eyebrows. "And there's always a monster that runs faster than I do. Why do you think I have my bow? Or that sword? It's not for opening letters."

Snapping his book closed, Sam pressed his hands flat on the table and rose, letting the stiff muscles have their say as he gradually straightened his spine. "That's settled, then – Where we going?"

"I've got a list," Bobby said, clearly not pleased with the idea. "A bunch of hunts I was saving for you. Low key stuff I didn't need to assign right off the bat. Thought you could handle them after Nadine was in the clear. But…" he held up the list, "might as well kill two birds with one stone, right?"

It took less than an hour to get packed up and settled in the Impala. Nadine cracked a window open as they pulled away from Bobby's, letting the refreshing gusts of air blow over her face. There was no way she could've survived in the panic room for another month. She simply wouldn't have made it. It had been stupid to try. But now, at least, the boys might have some closure when she left: they'd done their best, tried to keep her safe and tucked away, but _she chose_ to leave them. No need for them to understand how dire the situation really was.

Or the fact that she was going to die.

She'd just slip away when the opportunity arose, and Dean would insist that he'd seen it coming, and that all this was for the best. Goggles didn't make good pets, anyway.

Goggles…

She snatched her backpack from where it sat on the floorboard and began a hasty search. Not in the front pockets. Not in the side ones, either. Not in the main cargo spaces. With an oath, she dropped the pack back on the floor. "Shit."

Dean twitched a glance at her through the rearview mirror. "Something wrong?"

"No, nothing," she said, folding her arms over her chest and glaring out the window. "Just left my goggles back at Bobby's."

"Should we turn around?" Sam asked. "You might need those."

"No. No, it's fine."

They let it drop, and Nadine pretended to count the trees as they sped away from the old house in the junkyard.

.O.O.O.

They reached the first town on their list just as evening set in. Dean chose the crappiest motel in town, and they got a pair of rooms – one for the boys, one for Nadine. It cost more, but it made the world just a little less awkward, and that was all that mattered in Nadine's book. Besides, it was unlikely Dean would ever fall asleep with her in the room, not after the little peep show in the basement.

Nadine tossed her backpack on her bed and scrubbed her face with some lukewarm tap water. The iron felt like it had joined with her skin – an invisible layer, like sweat, that irritated her even through her clothes. Maybe it was all in her head. Regardless, a shower would go a long way towards making her feel coherent again.

But there was no time for that.

She delayed as long as she could, splashing more water on her face and arranging her weapons next to her bag on the bed, but soon she was out of excuses, and she stepped next door to the Winchester's room. They'd left their door open, and as she lifted her hand to knock and announce her presence, she noticed their voices carried through to the parking lot where she stood. She froze, intent on their conversation. They were discussing her.

"...can you think she's up to _any_ of this?"

For a moment she hesitated, balancing on the thin line between doubt and action. But she was curious, and foolhardy, and – honestly – she was looking for an excuse to leave, and hearing what they _really_ thought about her might just give her that little push out the door she needed. Before she could over-think the situation, she turned invisible and crept through the open doorway.

Dean shrugged in answer to his brother's question. "She said she was alright."

"Just look at her, Dean," Sam hissed, trying to keep his voice down, coaxing his brother to do the same. "Does she look alright to you?"

"So what, Sam?" Dean demanded, leaning forward in his chair. "She's not a kid. And she's not family."

The look Sam gave him would have put the pope to shame. It was Sam's know-it-all look – his judgy know it all look – and Dean clearly had to fight the urge to smack it off his face. "Cas wasn't family, either. Not at first."

Slowly, making sure each word had time to sink in, Dean said, "She is not Cas."

"But she could…"

"And Bobby could win the lottery and move to a sunnier climate with an underwear model," Dean said. "Or we could get lucky for a change. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

"What is _with_ you, Dean?" Sam scrutinized his brother, flabbergasted by his sudden animosity for their unconventional colleague. "Did something happen?"

"No." Dean stared sullenly at the wall. "Nothing happened."

That was enough. Nadine stepped back to the door and let her invisibility fall away. She knocked and sauntered in without awaiting permission, cool and casual as could be. "We ready to make some plans?"

Sam cleared his throat. His eyes flickered to Dean. "Yeah. Sure." His voice had the husky edge it always did when he came out of an emotional stand-off. For a man whose work was based on lies, he had a rotten poker face.

For a few minutes, Dean just stared at the wall, so Nadine ignored him in favor of Sam, whose bed she plonked down on as they began.

"So, what are we going after? Ghost? Vampires? Ghouls?" She crossed her legs and rested her hands on her knee, all too aware of how short the hem of her dress was.

"Ghosts, actually," Sam rushed to say, trying to fill the void his brother left in the conversation. "Well, ghost. Just someone lingering around a nursing home. Nothing bad, not a vengeful spirit or anything, but there's always the chance that they'll degenerate, and…"

"Yeah, yeah, I got it." Nadine brushed the rest of his explanation away. "So, no boogie monsters or alligators in the sewer? I'm almost disappointed."

Sam offered a tentative smile. "I think Bobby was worried about you – about how much you could handle right off the bat. And I have to say I agree with him. It looks like your time in the panic room really did a number on you."

"Meh." She shrugged. "No big deal. I've been hunting monsters for an awfully long time, you know. A few aches and pains aren't too much trouble."

Dean, finally breaking off his staring contest with the wall, snorted. "Figures. Monster in the closet? You already know him; you're the monster under the bed."

Sam reeled under his brother's assault, as if he'd been the intended target. Almost gasping, he muttered, "_Dean_."

Still seated on the bed, Nadine let herself freeze into the perfect ice sculpture. The words burned hot as iron, but she'd seen them coming, and she gave herself a little pat on the back for learning to read Dean so well. But the sting was still there, and she dropped her instinct to preserve their relationship, allowing her own brand of venom to spring to her lips. It was hard to suppress the urge to play off the injury with a joke, but there was enough of an ache in her chest to forge some wicked comebacks. This would be an ugly fight, but it would serve her purposes. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, right?

"Well, Shamu, at least I'm not a hypocritical asshat who drives a rust bucket with a salvage title."

"Leave. My car. Out of this," Dean said, turning his full attention on her.

"Alright, fine." Nadine rolled her shoulders and smiled, almost flirting as she bounced her foot. "Let's talk about you, Dean. The skin-deep hero with devotion as shallow as the topsoil in the Rockies. You just love giving people what-for, but what actually gives you the right to dispense judgment from on high?"

Now Sam was gawking at her, and Dean was practically steaming.

She raised her eyebrows. "That wasn't a rhetorical question, you know."

Dean lifted his chin and flared his nostrils, gladly accepting the excuse to escalate the fight. Helpless to intervene, Sam sat between the two, eyes darting between opponents.

"You know what?" he asked. "I've bled too much, lost too much, seen too much to have to justify myself to some freaky little Adams Family reject like you."

Nadine cocked her head and amped up the irony. "So you don't actually have a reason. Or is your reason that you've had a bad time with life? That is a shitty reason."

"What do you know?"

Nadine lifted her hands in an open-armed shrug. "I know I've bled, too. I've lost people. I've seen stuff. Just because I got my picture taken with the world's biggest ball of yarn doesn't mean a thing, though. This is about more than whose boo-boos are bigger." Dean rolled his eyes, and Nadine let her tone grow vicious. "You're like a child – some baby howling in the night because Daddy didn't kiss him goodnight."

"You watch your mouth," he roared.

"Sure! Once you man up and put on your big boy pants."

He actually took a step forward, ready to escalate the quarrel to a physical level, and he probably would have if Sam hadn't intervened, grabbing his brother by the shoulders. "Dean! Calm down." He glanced over his shoulder at Nadine, utterly bewildered. "What the hell is going on with you two?"

Nadine tapped her foot, egging Dean on with the repetitious noise. "Big bro' had a revelation, but it wasn't particularly enlightening," she said.

Still fixated on her, Dean snarled, "Get out."

She rose, dropped a curtsey, and turned towards the door. Her work was done. She had no desire to continue this fight. "With pleasure."

Her room was just as she left it – her pack and her weapons all arrayed and ready. She perched on the bed and dug out her oiling supplies, allowing herself a brief reprieve from the drama to clean her sword. It was a very simple weapon, one of her earlier creations, but it had a good sharp bite. And it was wrapped in enough enchantments to kill half the things they hunted with one careful swing. Dabbing some oil on a cloth, she set to work. Under her careful ministrations, the dust and dirt was banished, leaving behind a beautiful, gleaming blade. The rumble of the Impala informed her when the boys left to do the job without her, but she kept to her task and resisted the urge to peek out the window.

Once she was finished, she took that shower she'd been fantasizing about. Then she fell into bed beside her gear. It might be a while before she could rest in an actual bed again. Might as well enjoy it while she could.

.O.O.O.

The Impala returned at around two in the morning, jarring her from her dreams just long enough for her to acknowledge the Winchesters' arrival. When she opened her eyes again, it was almost eight. Usually the boys didn't wait this long before loading up again. Lucky for her, they seemed as reluctant as she was to get back in the car together. Maybe they were even debating whether or not to leave her behind.

No point letting the poor things agonize over the decision.

Nadine could almost taste the crunchy _zripp_ as she closed up her backpack, the last item packed away, all ready for the road. This was how things were meant to be. Nadine plus her backpack, minus compromising alliances. This was right. She was doing the correct thing, and she only wished she'd had the presence of mind to do it earlier. She could've spared them so much pain. She could've saved herself so much doubt.

Of course she had to die. And she didn't need to raise the death toll by linking arms with the Hardy Boys.

She was just passing Sam and Dean's room when their door opened and Dean slipped out to check on his baby. It was bad timing, but Nadine stuck to the plan, keeping her eyes on the road ahead.

"Hey," Dean said. It wasn't his usual angry 'hey,' the one that was usually followed by his favorite explicative of the week. This was the awkward 'hey,' the one that meant he was entering into an area he wasn't entirely comfortable going – an area like touchy-feely emotional stuff. Because nothing scared a Winchester like the touchy-feelies. And that could only mean one thing…

No. Oh, _hell_ no. He wasn't supposed to forgive her. Not that fast. Not _now_. Preferably not until she was dead, gone, and a vaguely bittersweet memory. Like a Sweettart. This was not how it was supposed to go down. She picked up the pace and refused to look back at him.

"_Hey_." It was more assertive this time, maybe even a little angry.

Forgive her, huh? Well, she'd just have to ignore him back into hating her again.

But it finally dawned on him that Nadine was armed with her backpack and was headed, fully packed, away from her hotel room without so much as a by-your-leave. From there, it wasn't hard to string the pieces together. The first shades of anger died from his voice, replaced by the slightest hint of panic. "Nadine. Stop!"

Still refusing to look at him, Nadine dropped her head and barreled forward. She could hear his heavy feet pound the pavement as he launched himself after her. With those long strides of his, it wouldn't take him long to catch up, so Nadine did what she did best: she disappeared. Dean swore and ran faster, but Nadine just skipped to the side and watched him fumble around, waving his arms like a looney, trying to grab what he couldn't see.

"Nadine! Cut it out. I mean it!" he shouted. "I know you can hear me. Stop being a bitch and face me like a big girl, alright?" When his goading garnered no response, he let his flailing limbs fall slack, but he kept turning in circles, peering around, hoping that she'd just turn up behind him. He'd spent way too much time in the company of angels. "Look, I was stupid, okay? I was mad and I was stupid. You happy? What I said was, I mean… Damn it! C'mon. I'm sorry, okay? Just get the hell back here. You can't… Come on, Goggles!"

She backed into the shade of the overhang, only a few yards away from the hunter. Her eyes drifted closed. See no evil, hear no evil.

Dean spent several more minutes groping around empty space, hoping to find an invisible friend, but soon enough he realized his efforts were in vain, and he cast his eyes toward the road. He raked his fingers back through the air as a muscle in his jaw twitched. "Shit." He sprinted inside, presumably to find Sam and get his posse on the road.

Nadine considered where they might think she'd go. Wherever that was, she didn't want to be there. It might be best to stay and watch which way they drove off, but she didn't know how much longer her determination could hold out, so she took the opportunity to cross the empty street and wind her way through the town's few alleys towards the woods to the north.

They'd never find her. She would never see them again. And that was the way it was supposed to be.

**A/N: ****I was thinking, "Oh, I can just keep going on, because cliffies are for jerks." Then I thought, "Meh, leave 'em dangling from the cliff." Maybe I'll scare some reviews out of you. There's a Doctor Who meme going around of 10 saying "You like it." I know it's not cool to like ocs in this fandom, but clearly you do, because a bunch of you favorited/added me to your alert lists (thanks by the way!), but no one else will find this fic if the review count stays so low. You may pretend to be cool, but... "You like it." So share the love, my friends, share the love. **

**The good news is that I have a significant chunk of the next chapter written. The bad news is that I'm going on vacation the first part of next week, and will spend the second part of the week atoning for that fact at work. REVIEWS HELP. Seriously. A big thanks to the three reviewers for the last chapter! **


	11. Arch 1: Chapter 11

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Eleven: Undecided**

The air was impossibly pure, and the chain link fence she leaned on did not burn her. She looked out at rolling hills covered with long grass bent by the wind, and acknowledged that she was asleep.

"Nadine."

She turned around and found Castiel standing just behind her, looking more constipated than usual.

"Where are you?" he asked. He marched forward, clearly aware that she couldn't run away in her own mind. "The Winchesters said you disappeared."

"I did disappear," she said. "Hello, by the way. It's kinda creepy, this whole dream-stalking thing."

Castiel ignored her taunt, refused to be lured from the issue at hand. "Why did you leave the Winchesters?"

She shrugged. "It wasn't safe. For me. For them. For Bobby. It was just a bad idea from the get-go, but I…" She shrugged again, trying to shake off the unwanted thoughts. "It was a bad idea."

Awkwardly, apparently realizing that the matter was more complex than he'd assumed, Cas glanced around at Nadine's inner sanctum. "I understand. I don't agree, but I understand. Nadine." He huffed. "I don't think it's wise for you to be alone. Not with Beltaine so near."

She shook her head. "I'm not going back, Castiel."

"That's not what I was suggesting," he said patiently. "I can take you back to the cabin where Balthazar cared for you after your… accident. You'd be safe there."

Nadine didn't hurry to answer. The scene was all in her head, but she enjoyed the breeze's cool kiss, the deep breaths free of iron stink. In her head, she was the most normal girl in the whole world.

She squeezed the rail of the chain link fence. Did she want to go back to the cabin? Hiding wouldn't do her any good. Running probably wouldn't, either. That left her with a very limited window to experience life to its fullest. Sitting on the sidelines didn't sound like such a great time. She needed to do something useful. Especially now.

"If you're willing, you can also continue making weapons for me."

Hardly worthy of a Nobel Prize, but it was something at least. Turning away from the view, she met the angel's weary blue eyes. Really, what else could she do? Bury herself in some city, ducking and crawling until the Hunt came ripping through her chosen motel, eager for blood and vengeance? She'd cut all other connections long ago, and mending them now would bring nothing but trouble. This was where she could be the most useful, and if Castiel was willing to put up with the risk, she would trust him.

"Okay."

The angel seemed almost startled by the simple agreement, and he blinked a few times, shifting between several different frowns as he worked out her exact meaning. "Then… you agree? To remain in the cabin and construct weapons until…" he froze and rethought whatever words he'd first considered. "Until Beltaine has safely passed?"

"Unless something truly dire happens," she said. Hoping to soften the harsh lines around his eyes, she smiled. "It'll be like the tinker's retreat or something. You can get me everything I need?"

"Balthazar will oversee your needs." He looked away, trying to riddle some mystery out of the landscape. "I will check on your progress when time permits."

"Great." Reluctantly, she let her hands drop from the fence. "I'm in Omaha, Traveler's Rest Motel, room fourteen."

Castiel nodded. "I will come to you." His glance was strangely apologetic. "You must wake up now."

She nodded, and he vanished with a flutter. Then she opened her eyes to the smoke-stained ceiling. The old bed creaked as she sat up and scanned the room. Castiel stood by the door, ready to give her a lift to the wilderness, and she went about packing her few things with all due haste.

It was best not to keep an angel waiting.

.O.O.O.

Castiel believed in miracles. He had, in fact, helped organize a few. But he still struggled to believe random coincidence had introduced him to Nadine Sheldon. That such a perfect agent to his unholy deal with Crowley should become the Winchesters' newest ally was too tidy to be true. She was very real, however, and so was Castiel's dilemma.

He watched her organize her workshop in a corner of the cabin with stony silence while he waited for his brother Balthazar to arrive. Conversation was difficult. Castiel had never grown accustomed to the human habit of making 'little white lies'. The term puzzled him. Lies had no color. They could not be white. Once he came to understand the term better, he was still confused. Lies were not harmless. They were sins. No matter the speaker's intent, they could make nothing better. Then he had made his deal with Crowley, and suddenly every word that escaped his lips was shadowed with falsehood. There were things he chose not to say, and what he said was aimed to deceive. He couldn't remember when the sensation had become so natural, but all of a sudden he was lying all the time. To the Winchesters. To the angels who followed him. To Nadine. And he told himself it was right.

Crowley demanded action, and Castiel understood that such action would immutably change him. There would be no going back once he'd bathed his hands in the blood of an innocent, the blood of a friend who had volunteered what may be her final days to help him win a war in which she had no part. It would be too dark a stain to ever erase. Such stains weren't meant to be cleansed. Did the end justify the means? Would he be forgiven if he performed evil for the sake of good? He'd often dealt heaven's wrath and vengeance as an angel, but the orders came from above. It could be argued that he was not responsible for any he killed under orders. This was different. This was his decision: his mistake to suffer, or his victory to seize.

"I have a favor to ask."

He started, jolted from his thoughts, and realized Nadine was standing in front of him, a miniscule set of drawers in her hand, like a tiny apothecary cabinet. Her expression was the same as ever – all too open, deceptively so – and he realized that regardless what he planned for her – no, _because_ of his plans – he could deny her nothing. If the sacrifice made a request, he was honor bound to fulfill it. It was the least he could do.

"Of course."

Holding out the box, she smirked. "I need to set up instant messaging with the Winchester bros."

He accepted the box, and stared down at it, puzzled. "I… do not understand."

"It's like carrier pigeons without the birds," Nadine said, already turning back to her work table. "I have a second box." It took a moment for Castiel to find it, but there it was, sitting in the back corner, just another nameless object in Nadine's collection. "I put in a message, and the same message appears in the other box. They put in a message, and it appears here. Magicians used to call it a vanishing cabinet. This is a small one, but… same principle."

The wood felt fragile in Castiel's hands, and he cradled it gingerly, afraid of crushing it. Crowley would tell him he should. "I thought you left the Winchesters."

"Yes." She unwound a roll of leather, revealing a set of delicate silver tools. "But not because I wanted to, and…" Castiel noted the tension in her shoulders. She shook herself and continued. "And they wanted me to stay. Dean actually tried to apologize for the fight I started. Can you imagine?"

Castiel looked down at the miniature vanishing cabinet resting between his palms, and thought of every argument he'd ever had with the Winchesters. Those fights stayed with him. He couldn't imagine what the brothers would say if they ever thought he…

"I understand. I will take it to Bobby Singer's house. I think that would be best."

"That's fine."

Curious despite himself and eager to ease the anxiety rising in his gut, he asked, "How did you construct them? I understand you've been on the run ever since you and the Winchesters parted ways. I can't imagine such an existence would be conducive to… carpentry."

"Heh." She turned around and blasted him with a smile. Castiel's stomach fluttered. He'd often heard humans describing a similar experience when they were nervous in the presence of a potential mate, but Castiel felt neither light nor giddy. Only ill. He was sick with his fears. Oblivious to the discomfort her friendliness had caused, she carried on with the conversation. "I didn't build them from scratch. I found them in a secondhand store and modified them." The leather roll of tools went to the back; an etched glass ball replaced them at the front. "Vanishing cabinets are easy-peasy. All you need is something lost and something found. The more personal, the better. The magic doesn't tie to places – it ties to ideas, thoughts, people. You find those empty places inside, and you string the magic along connections you've established. You need something lost for distance; you need something found for proximity."

Castiel struggled against his instinctive reaction to her joy and formulated a quick and honest reply, "I do not understand."

"Can't say I've ever met an angel who would," she said. "Granted, I've only met two of you, or three, so I'm pretty far from an expert."

"I would like to understand," Castiel said. "Perhaps," his voice grew stiff and brittle, "perhaps you can teach me."

"I would but," she shrugged, "it's all in the magic. Either there's magic in your soul or there isn't. Without that, explaining what I do is like explaining drinking games to a gazelle. We aren't speaking the same language."

She hadn't discerned his true meaning, but he had not really intended her to. He was foolhardy – trying to warn her of a decision he had yet to make. It was time he left.

"I should deliver this."

"Go ahead," she gestured around the empty cabin. "I'm not going anywhere."

He made to leave but hesitated, watching her arrange her workspace to attain maximum efficiency. Reality came with the motions. Placing, moving, studying. Here, Nadine was no mere theoretical dilemma. She was no longer a moral ultimatum. She was real in herself, defined by what she produced and performed. It was strange to consider her this way. He'd tried so hard not to, but Nadine was not a creature to be ignored.

He was sinking too far into his thoughts. Soon he would be unable to take any action at all.

Sensing that he was still behind her, she glanced over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow. "You enjoying the view back there or what?"

"I was merely…"

"Hello, my dearest! Is Cas being naughty? I'm sorry I didn't arrive earlier." Balthazar's arrival was like a sudden storm where the rain fell with drenching force, but the sun still smiled down on the scene, laughing as everyone tried to outrun the gale. It was… disconcerting. And yet, Castiel had never been more grateful for his rambunctious brother's interruption.

Castiel ducked his head and turned away. "I was just leaving."

"No need to rush away on my account," Balthazar said.

Barely meeting his brother's eyes, Castiel acknowledged Balthazar, but he wasted no time with idle pratter. "I must go. There are things I must see to."

"Naturally." Balthazar glanced down, frowned, and performed a little dance as he spun around, scrutinizing the room. "Where do you keep the alcohol in this place, anyway?"

Nadine laughed, and Castiel left to face his demons – or demon, as it were. Namely: Crowley. And he had to deliver Nadine's box.

He needed to see his… partner. It was time they talked.

.O.O.O.

To say the king of hell was underwhelmed with Castiel's recent performance would be putting it mildly. For the first few sentences, he was perfectly civil, or as civil as a demon could be while poking at a butchered corpse. Castiel did not understand how the demon could take any pleasure from such activities, and yet he seemed at home in his bloody apron with the radio crooning in the background. The moment the cadaver entered the conversation, of course, the veneer of gentility dropped, and Crowley was all but spitting fire.

"She was our single best chance to get over the rainbow," he seethed, " and the Winchesters killed her!"

Disturbed by Crowley's casual brutality, Castiel marched a few paces away, focusing on a spot on the wall relatively clear of organic debris. "It was unavoidable." If he was honest, he would also admit that he was frustrated with himself. Crowley, the lesser being, the twisted mutilation of a human soul, could achieve his ends so easily. He didn't bat an eye when sacrifices were called for. Yet there was Castiel, an angel, a being of divine intent, and he couldn't even follow his own plans.

"You screwed up, Cas," Crowley said, gesturing with his poker. "You let the hounds mangle the pheasant, and now I am up to my elbows in it." He nudged a rolling tray of gleaming metal instruments aside, and the cart rattled to the side.

Castiel returned his full attention to the demon. He was too perturbed to be having this conversation. He had poor timing. But he needed to make a decision, and he had come to Crowley to harden his resolve. It didn't mean he had to enjoy it, though, and it certainly didn't mean he would allow the demon an iota of control over their… arrangement. "What is your point?"

Crowley, it seemed, had his own irritations to vent. "The point is: you're distracted. And that makes me nervous."

Castiel let his anger blunt his words. "I am holding up my end."

Lifting his eyebrows, Crowley swaggered a step forward. "Ah, yes." He continued to approach. "But is that all you're holding, huh?" He closed the distance between them. "See…" A sniff of Castiel's coat. "The stench of that Impala is all over your overcoat, angel." The demon stepped back again, allowing the space between them to return to a comfortable distance. "I thought we'd agreed. No more nights out with the boys."

"I spoke with Dean," Castiel said tersely. "I needed to know what they know."

"About what?" Crowley asked, feigning innocence. "About me, maybe? Because I have it on good authority that you're two little pets are currently trying to hunt me down!"

Castiel's only response was stony silence, and the demon reigned himself in. A little.

"Forgive me, but I think you might have a little conflict of interest here." He stabbed the exposed brain of the corpse and glowered at Castiel as the bound monster across the room went into a seizure. As his captive twitched, the demon plucked a cloth from the tray he'd knocked aside and delicately scrubbed the blood from his cuticles. "And how's our little Plan B coming along? Pulled the trigger yet?"

"I think it would be best," Castiel said, choosing his words carefully, "to hold her in reserve. There were contingency plans…"

"She _was_ the back-up plan!" Crowley threw the rag across the room. Where it met the wall, it left a red stain. Crowley took a moment to compose himself, his shoulders heaving, face bent in a scowl. "I'm beginning to doubt your dedication, Castiel. She's _perfect_. She threw herself in your lap, and you don't think that maybe this is all a little more than coincidence? We're so close to Purgatory – I can smell those souls – and you aren't man enough to make one teensy little sacrifice in the name of your precious cause? You won't swallow one measly soul. There are angels dead because of you, and your hands are dripping with their blood. But you won't just slit that little changeling chit's throat!"

"I will," Castiel barked, "when I'm absolutely certain it's necessary." He shook his head, and his eyes slipped to the side. "Nadine is closely linked to the Winchesters."

"Cas." Heaving a sigh, Crowley leaned back against the autopsy table. "I know you don't _want_ to, but something's gotta give." From any other man, Castiel might have assumed the tone was one of condolence. However, Crowley was beyond such things. This was manipulation: pure and simple. But wasn't that why he'd come in the first place? "Think of it like this: the longer you draw things out, the more likely the Winchesters will discover our little plan. Now, you'll have to lose a pet or two, one way or another. Your choice is how many. You could off the changeling now and cover things up nice and tidy before the Winchesters get any more suspicious. Or you could take the low road – second-guessing yourself and babysitting the duck you plan to have for dinner – and then the Winchesters are bound to find out, and it will be all the messier when it comes time to kill the goose." He shrugged. "Your choice, angel."

.O.O.O.

There was no booze in the cabin, so Balthazar vanished for a full five minutes to hunt down some scotch and a pair of tumblers while Nadine continued setting up shop. There wasn't much left to do, and she was just reaching for the little glass orb she'd finished in Bobby's shop when the flutter of wings announced Balthazar's return.

"That was fast."

"Let it never be said that I do not know my way to a reputable liquor store."

"Reputable? Really?"

Balthazar lifted his shoulders. "More or less." He set the glasses down on the spot she'd left open for him, and the scotch was downright musical as it cascaded into each tumbler. Once they were ready, Balthazar handed her a drink, and Nadine pushed herself up to sit on the counter as she sipped the alcohol, savoring the mysterious heat that gradually rose in her belly.

"That's nice."

Balthazar smirked. "That's quality," he corrected, sipping from his own glass. "I don't suppose you have any new toys for me? I'm ever so bored."

"Well, now that you mention it…" She fished around behind her back until she found the orb again. Balthazar eyed it as she brought it into the light, the etched script glittering over painstakingly carved symbols.

"Shiny," he said as Nadine dropped it in his palm. He took a moment to weigh the little ball, frowning at the peculiar weight. "What does it do?"

Nadine pantomimed lifting the ball, and Balthazar carefully mirrored her. "Hold it up to your eye like this. Right. Now push it out to the side, and take a step in the same direction."

The angel complied with an unnatural level of coordination for a man who drank like a fish, and suddenly there were two of him standing in front of Nadine. For a second Balthazar didn't see his double, and he opened his mouth to ask what was meant to happen just as his copy did the same, and he snapped around to realize he was beside himself. "Well, that's different," he said. Then he reconsidered. "Or is it the same?"

"That's a doppelganger," Nadine said, pointing to the second Balthazar. "If you give it orders, it will obey you, but only you. It will behave as you would, even say what you would in any given situation. If you look in the sphere you can see what it's seeing. If you pay attention, you can hear what it hears as well."

Balthazar held up the ball again, scrutinizing the fine detail with eyes that saw more than any human's. "Incredible." He blinked. "And how do I get rid of it?"

"Step back into it," Nadine said. "It should disperse again."

Taking a step back to the side, Balthazar blended with himself, and the doppelganger's distinct image faded away in a slow blur.

"To anyone else, your image should be concrete," she said.

"Oh," he smiled, "the ideas that gives me."

Nadine took another drink. "Just remember: you can't touch yourself."

With an approving laugh, Balthazar slipped the ball in his pocket and reached for his glass. "How naughty of you to say so."

"You thought it first."

"Mm."

Something about Balthazar always reminded Nadine of a very self-satisfied cat. Of course, all cats were self-satisfied, so maybe that was a bit redundant. It was the way he smirked, how his smile spread past his face and filled out the rest of his body. He glowed in a way that had nothing to do with his angelic grace. The man was a walking innuendo, and he wasn't even a man. Did that make him a contradictory innuendo? Nadine took a few more sips of her drink and savored the way her thoughts settled. All the heady confusion of fear and frustration was filtered out by the alcohol, leaving only smooth calm and confidence behind.

"So," she said, setting her glass to the side, "ever figure out why Castiel is going out of his way to be so… helpful?"

Balthazar tossed an open shrug that took up nearly half the room. His drink sloshed dangerously. If it had been filled any higher, it would've spilled. "Idealism? Chivalry? Who knows?"

Nadine gnawed the inside of her cheek and let her gaze drift away from the angel. Her thoughts drifted back to her encounters with Castiel. There was something there, something she couldn't quite place, that flitted through his expression every now and again when he spoke with her. If she could figure that out, she was sure she could figure out the rest. It wasn't normal to be so generous. Nadine didn't believe in that kind of natural charity. There was always something to gain, and to justify such attention, she must be ear-marked for something important.

After several moments of contemplation, she remembered she was not alone, and she glanced up at Balthazar, almost like she'd been caught half dressed.

He craned his head back and studied her through squinted eyes, weighing and measuring something in her face.

Flushing, Nadine yanked a bit of hair behind her ear. "What?" she snapped.

"You have feelings for him, don't you?"

She flinched. The words struck a possibility she'd never even acknowledged. "No, of course not. Don't be stupid." A second ago, it hadn't existed, now it was an unavoidable fact.

"You have a crush on him," Balthazar surmised. "Ah. You have a crush on Cas." He downed his entire glassful. The empty cup won a reproachful glare, and the angel began hunting for the bottle. "I think I'm going to need another drink. Several, in fact. Actually, might as well make it all the liquor in Europe. The economy could use a boost."

Nadine watched as he practically inhaled the rest of the bottle. Then he laughed.

"Poor sod. He has no idea. Damn lucky bastard." The bottle was already against his lips before he remembered it was empty.

"Don't tell him," Nadine said. "Not one word, or hint, or wink, or any more innuendos than you use in regular conversation."

"Oh, that would spoil the fun," Balthazar agreed. His eyes turned soft, and a note of sympathy crept into his tone. "He might never realize, you know. He might never understand."

"It's just a crush," Nadine insisted. "I'll probably be over it long before he figures anything out."

"That shouldn't be difficult," Balthazar said. "For all his qualities, Castiel has never been the fastest on the draw. Even if he realized the situation, by the time he figured out what response would be most appropriate, the world will have disintegrated into ash."

"You're so reassuring, Balthazar."

"I am honest," he chucked the bottle into the waste basket. "We need more liquid courage, I think." A smirk grew over his face. "If you're this much fun after one glass, I can't imagine what you'll be like after five."

"Some of us practice moderation, you know."

"Ah, but if you require practice, then you have clearly not perfected it."

Nadine rolled her eyes, and the angel chuckled.

"I'll return momentarily. By the by, what do I owe you for my little bauble?"

Payment? She hadn't even considered putting a fee on her services. The cabin and supplies were more than sufficient. But Nadine was never one to pass on such a golden opportunity. "We'll just say you owe me a favor, right?"

His lids dropped to hood his eyes; he knew the true value of such a price. "As you wish, my dear."

Nadine leaned back, mindful of the odds and ends behind her, and picked up her drink. She couldn't help smiling. It felt like she just got away with something, and she liked it. The liquor went down smooth as silk.

The room filled with the rush of wings, and Castiel appeared near the door, looking (if possible) even wearier than when he left.

"Ah," Balthazar clapped his hands together, glancing between Nadine and the new arrival with contrived innocence. "How convenient. Cas, I was just stepping out." He sidled over to his brother angel with a rolling gait usually reserved for runway models and Don Juan. As he approached Castiel, Nadine tried to glare a hole through his temple, but her warning fell on deaf ears. "Would you mind staying with our friend, here, while I'm gone?"

"She hardly needs minding," Castiel said. It might have been paranoia on Nadine's part, but she got the feeling he wasn't so keen on chilling with her. "During Beltaine she will need protecting, but she does not require a regular guard until that time."

Balthazar gave him a reproachful look. "You have so much to learn about women, my friend." Nadine actively began looking for something to chuck at the naughty angel, but he pressed on, letting the casual hint drift into the vague netherworld of references Castiel failed to catch. "What I mean is, she only just arrived, and I'm sure she'd enjoy some company." He smiled and held out his arms, like he was ready to hug the world. "Hang around, Cas. Talk a while. If you're so terribly worried about wasting time, give her something to work on. Give the girl a challenge. I'm sure she'll surprise you."

Nadine cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows as she nodded towards the door. "Weren't you just leaving, Balthazar?"

"Sadly," he said, "I was. But I'll come again." He curtsied, pulling open one side of his suite jacked in lieu of a skirt. "Till next time, then."

And he was gone.

The cabin became alarmingly quiet, and Nadine glanced at Castiel. Maybe, if she was very, very lucky, she could lure him into a conversation. If she failed, well, the awkward would just eat her alive.

"Do you people ever use doors?" she asked. It wasn't the cleverest thing she'd ever asked, but why not? It was a valid question.

"Not often," Castiel confessed, taking a few tentative steps into the room. "They are not as… expedient."

"I'm sure they're not, at least not when you go all Nightcrawler and bamf around the planet." She was surprised to find she was still holding her glass, and she gulped down the remnants faster than she probably should have. The heat was bordering on uncomfortable, but it was still pleasant enough. She gave Castiel a quick smile, trying to ease the inexplicable tension in the air. Before she realized what she was doing, she began drumming her heals against the cabinets. Shit. Why had Balthazar brought that up? Now she couldn't stop thinking about it. And apparently she flirted like a first grade girl. All she needed were pigtails and a lollipop.

Castiel, shockingly, made the first attempts at an actual discussion. "I am, uh, unaware of how you developed your skill in crafting magical objects."

Nadine smiled and returned her glass to the counter. She placed it more gingerly than she need to, but it was hard to gauge how much the alcohol was affecting her, and it was better to be safe than sorry. "It's complicated."

Unsure whether to be put off by her response, Castiel brushed his fingers against the lip of the counter and pursed his lips as he thought. Nadine couldn't help following the trail of his hand, noting the dry whisper his skin made against the wood. Too bad Balthazar wouldn't be bringing back that booze anytime soon.

"I don't know much about your… upbringing." Castiel looked up, rather helpless, unsure of himself. It was clear he was trying to communicate with her in a meaningful way. He just didn't know how to do it.

It was almost painful – how hard he was trying – but Nadine couldn't bring herself to go there. "It's complicated."

"Your relationship with the Winchesters…"

"…is complicated."

The angel paused. "I think," he frowned, "that I'm beginning to understand." As Nadine's heels began to still, he braved a few more steps, closing another few feet, bringing them closer. "When you say that a matter is complicated, you mean you don't want to talk about it."

Nadine offered him a mock salute. "Well spotted, sir."

Castiel smiled. It was a weak little smirk, but it was there. Nadine blamed the warm flush that crawled up her neck on the alcohol. He was just so proud of himself – he'd figured something out, and even though she was being less than cooperative, he'd succeeded in making contact. It was precious, really.

"I believe," he said, "in such situations, humans make a point of discussing the weather." He sat very still for a moment, and Nadine wondered if the angel came equipped with radar. After some consideration, he said, "It looks like rain tomorrow."

"Very good," she said, unable to fight her grin. "And, yeah, it does kinda smell like rain, now that you mention it."

Castiel considered her response. His eyebrows dipped towards each other, drawing his face into one great scowl of concentration. "Do you… like rain?"

"Most days." Nadine shrugged. "It's very active weather, you know? Usually there's the sky, and the ground, and a bunch of air in between. But then it rains, and it's all one place – the rain touches everything. I don't know, it's like the only time heaven and earth touch." Castiel opened his mouth, and Nadine rushed to preempt his reminder of reality. "Yeah, yeah." She waved him off. "I know that's not how it works, but especially now that I know something's up there, that contact – imagined or not – seems important. Touch says a lot."

The scowl unfurled, and his brows reached for his hairline. Patiently, he said, "Physical contact does not speak."

"You've got a lot to learn about humans," she said, a teasing ring in her voice.

Stiffly, Castiel adjusted the cuffs of his trenchcoat. "I am aware that I lack the knowledge to comprehend certain cultural references."

"Oh, that's not what I'm talking about."

"Then to what are you in reference?"

She smiled and held out her hand, palm up, an invitation. "Touch."

Castiel glanced at the hand, then searched her face, his own a picture of quizzical intrigue. "I do not understand."

Dropping her hand back to her side, Nadine laughed. "Touch, Castiel, casual touch. People don't just communicate using words, you know. They call it body language for a reason."

He took a step closer to her work bench, cocking his head. "And what does… touch… communicate?"

"_Lots_ of things." She waggled her eyebrows. "Some of them rather naughty. But casual touch – just a hand on someone's shoulder, or a hug, or letting your fingers bump into someone else's… it's like code for 'I'm okay' or 'You're okay.' It's silent support. Just… letting your presence be felt, I guess." The irony tickled her, and she snorted, startling the angel. "Literally." And _that_ was when she realized she shouldn't be so worried protecting the glass. Her pride was in far more mortal danger.

"I…" Castiel looked at the floor, scowling again, and then looked at her, almost glaring, brimming with determination. "I understand."

With a friendly scoff, Nadine crossed her ankles. "I don't think you do. But that's okay. Things like that, they have to be learned through experience. You can get the concepts, but there's a lot you can't understand until you live it."

Castiel conceded the point, nodding. "You may be right. There are…" He trailed off as he glanced behind him, trying to find an empty space on the nearest counter where he could prop himself without disturbing something. Taking pity on him, Nadine hopped down and reached around the angel to graciously sweep aside the pile of leather scraps sitting there. She was already halfway through the action when she realized how close this had brought her to Castiel. Scant inches separated them, and her face burned as she stepped back, clearing her throat. Castiel, however, was oblivious. Assuming the spot she had cleared for him, he continued with his train of thought. "There are things I experience in my natural form that I could never explain to those who have not been liberated from physical restrictions. The principles could be communicated – to an extent – but I believe you are right." He beamed, pleased with his success. "It would not be the same."

Nadine shared a brief spasm of a smile and hunched her shoulders, folding her arms over her chest. They'd strayed into some interesting territory, but she wasn't used to this – wasn't used to _talking_ and she wasn't sure where to go. Battles of sarcasm and quick explanations were more her forte. It had been a long time since she just stood like this, having a genuine conversation for no purpose other than mutual interest and enjoyment. No one's life depended on this. It wasn't important at all. Somehow that felt unnatural, and her defenses strained to rise against the alien sensation.

Sensing the shift in mood, Castiel also tensed and returned to his stiff stance in the middle of the room. "Is something wrong?"

"No! No…" Now she felt like she'd insulted him, betrayed him, even, by spoiling the moment. "I'm just really tired." Time to play if off. Make it all a joke and let everyone laugh it away. "A little too much cardio in my workout lately – all that running."

"Of course." Castiel didn't laugh, but he seemed to swallow her excuse, even if he smelled the lie, and let it alone. "I will return when I can. If you have any immediate needs, call on Balthazar, and he will tend to you."

"Oh, I'm sure he will." The pucker was drawing his face together again, and Nadine dropped it. Conversation wasn't her forte. Innuendos weren't Castiel's. "Right. Thanks." She tried smiling again, and this time it felt a little less like knotted fishing line, so she assumed it was better.

A final nod, and Castiel was gone – vanished like Balthazar – leaving Nadine to set up camp. Alone. Again.

**A/N: Thank you all so much for the support! This is a busy season at work, so I've been juggling those responsibilities while dealing with a lot of other RLC (Real Life Crap). Your support means a lot. Your reviews make my day, and it's so exciting to know when people enjoy this fic. **

**We are approaching the end of Arch One. There should only be one more chapter, and then we will be on to the next phase of the story. Be excited! I am. I am very excited. **

**THANKS AGAIN!**


	12. Arch 1: Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.**

**Arch One: Goggles**

**Chapter Twelve: Poor, Unfortunate Souls**

Nadine had no idea what to do. Well, strictly speaking that was a lie. She knew _what_ to do, she just didn't know _how_ to do it. Castiel had delivered the other vanishing cabinet, and now it was time to put it to use. But her words were stuck.

Her brain was dead.

She was an idiot.

She couldn't write a freaking letter.

What was the world coming to?

For over an hour, she sat staring at the little drawers, willing them to bless her with divine inspiration for her note of… what? Was she apologizing? Maybe just explaining. But how could she explain picking a fight and running away in the middle of a small miracle – an apology from Dean could be counted as nothing less. They had the other vanishing cabinet now, and surely Castiel had left some explanation or directions for them. They must know if was from her. It was all a waiting game. Waiting for Nadine's brain to remember the alphabet and basic grammar. Things might be better if she could just try. A mess of wadded up rejects would be so much better than the stack of blank paper resting at her fingertips. Writing like that meant struggling to get it _right._ Presently, she was trying to get it _at all_.

It might be time to ask Balthazar to kidnap a novelist for her. She wasn't picky. He could bring a journalist instead if they were easier to catch. All Nadine cared about were the words they brought with them.

Then the box shuddered, and the bottom drawer popped out, blasting a small puff of dust into the air. Nadine's numb brain refused to process this development. It got stuck on the dust. When she first bought them, she'd planned to dust them, but one thing led to another, and it simply never happened. She couldn't even remember if she was thinking about her brains or the cabinets anymore.

Clarity struck her like a caffeinated lightning bolt, and she snapped to attention. The drawer had opened. She had a message. Trepidation threatened to freeze her again, but she fought against it, stretching a sluggish hand towards the knob, pulling the popped drawer wider. She grabbed the note before her nerves could get the better of her again and, shaking like a drug addict, she unfolded the little scrap of college ruled notepaper. Dean probably ripped it from one of Sam's notebooks. It was a funny thought, and a little gratifying. But it was all about the words. Angry words or kind words, sarcastic or flat. Her eyes kept slipping past them, refusing to be forced with the same determination as her fingers to translate the simple letters.

Eventually, however, they did. She read the note.

_Are you alright?_

Nadine choked, stopping the sob that bubbled up in her throat from croaking past her lips. The note blurred as tears gathered. What the crap? She was not this weak. She was not this pathetic. She did not cry when old friends sent a _Thinking Of You_ card.

But they were thinking of her. And, although the phrasing and penmanship were clearly Sam's, she could read the three men's concern through the brief inquiry. _Are you alright?_

She trembled and tried to still her quaking hands as she considered her response. What would be best? Brevity (_Yes_)? Apology (_I'm sorry I ditched you like a hot potato and let you think I was dead for a little while there…_)? Reciprocity (_I'm peachy. How are you?_)? Sarcasm (_Grand. Camp Angel cooks a mean bottle of scotch_)? All of the above? Would such a long letter even fit in the vanishing cabinet? She was kinda tempted to try.

"Nadine."

Jarred from her angst, she whipped around to find Castiel standing by the door, shoulders bowed, lips pressed thin, eyes shining with almost feverish intensity.

"We need to talk."

She spared a glance at the vanishing cabinet and picked up the Winchesters' note, tucking it inside her pocket for safekeeping. Then she gave the angel her undivided attention.

"Sure. What about?"

"I have been… thinking." He looked up at her, lifted his shoulders and stuffed his hands in his pockets. From a human, Nadine would have labeled such behaviors studied nonchalance. She didn't know what to call them in an angel. "I have considered how you can help me – help us – win the war, defeat Raphael."

Perking up, though still confused, Nadine turned fully around on the workbench. "Alright. I'm all ears. How can I help?"

"It's – you know about your soul?" He lifted his eyebrows, and when Nadine shook her head, he continued. "A fey soul is… unique."

"It wanders," Nadine supplied.

"Yes. It wanders between realms inaccessible to most other beings except under extraordinary circumstances."

"Like heaven and hell."

"Yes. And… purgatory."

Nadine shrugged. "Right. Yeah. So? How will that help? It doesn't give me any extra powers, you know, at least none that I'm aware of. Maybe when I'm older. A _lot_ older."

"It's true that you do not have the ability to take your body to different realms, but your soul wanders naturally. I'm sure it could be directed…"

"Not to be rude," her stomach was cramping, and a bitter taste was creeping up her throat, "but I don't understand where this is going." She did, as a matter of fact. She just didn't want to face it.

"I need the souls in purgatory," Castiel said quickly. "I need their power to defeat Raphael. But I don't know how to find purgatory, and with your soul I could find a way between realms." He hesitated, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter. "I know that this is a great sacrifice, but I'm asking for your soul. If I… had it… I could win the war. I know I could."

Nadine did him the courtesy of waiting until he had finished, gnawing the inside of her cheek to maintain her silence. The pain was grounding. It had been too long, apparently, since she had a reality check.

Finished, Castiel stood there, completely open, waiting with eager eyes for her response.

This explained so much. Everything, in fact. It explained his concern for her wellbeing up to this point, and certainly his interest. It gave a motive to his actions, the very thing she'd been pestering Balthazar for. But, now that she had, she wasn't sure she wanted it. It had been so much nicer to pretend he valued her life, that he wasn't just into her for her spare parts.

At least she knew what her answer was.

"No."

Castiel stiffened, ruffled by her response. "I was led to believe… certain actions have demonstrated that you hold… interest in me. I thought such a suggestion would not be entirely revolting to you. It is, after a fashion, what you seem to desire."

"But it's not," she said, digging her palms against the ledge of her work bench. "It's so, so not. It's _wrong_." Even from the corner of her eye, she could see by the sudden steel in his spine that she'd kicked an open wound. Her voice gentled. "I _like_ you, Castiel. But if you did this, if I let you, then there wouldn't _be_ a me to like you anymore." She shook her head. "I'm not stupid enough to think I could maintain my own identity as part of an angel. I'd just be burned away."

Rushing to reassure her, he said, "But I would protect your soul. I wouldn't let it be consumed. You would be with me, a part of me forever. And I would protect you."

"That's not how it works," Nadine said. "You want to use my soul, not just carry it around like a nuclear Tomagatchi. We would have to be one and the same for that to work, and I'm sure that nothing would be left of what I am apart from basic function."

They were at a turning point. She could feel it. Moments like these made saints and monsters. Paul or Hitler. The angel would take one path or the other. Once he moved on from this point, there would be no going back.

"Look," she said, "there has to be another way – to defeat Raphael, to get the souls, whatever. There's always a choice, even if it's not apparent."

.O.O.O.

Castiel had anticipated on some level that this would happen. He'd hoped, he'd prayed, that she'd agree – right away, immediately complying with his request for her immediate execution, because he would have to kill her to safely free her soul. But even though he'd hoped, he'd known she would refuse.

Perhaps he was being foolish. Perhaps he should've made his decision and acted upon it without discussion. But she had already given what had not been required, and he felt she deserved the truth, regardless of what may follow.

"You are," he stopped, frustrated by his own earnestness. It compelled him to speak, filled him out with words, too many words to leave his lips in a coherent string. Once more under control, he tried again, letting each word carry its own weight of meaning as it dropped into the air. "You are one of the last wandering souls on Earth, probably the only fey in a hundred years to turn her back on Tir na nÓg, and this doesn't strike you as fate? You have travelled with the Winchesters. You have hunted on your own for years." His enthusiasm was running away with him again, his desperate need to validate his actions. It was carrying from his voice to his actions – sharp gestures and tense shoulders stooped towards target. "How can you _not_ possibly believe that this is part of a greater scheme, that you are part of the grand design, and that this was always destined to happen?"

"Castiel," she barked. "You want to _swallow_ my _soul_. You want to rip the very essence of me from my body and _digest it_. Just – no." She put a hand on her head, the other fisting against her hip, and she looked at the ceiling, appealing to a higher power beyond the angel in the room. Her shoulders dropped. "I don't think I could ever stop you if you decide it's worth taking by force, but I'll never agree. Not now. Not after I've slept on it. Not ever. Please don't ask me again."

She turned away, fixing her eyes on the vanishing cabinet perched on her work table, and Castiel looked to the ceiling, trying to summon answers he knew would never come. He was alone, and any decisions he made must be made with haste. He needed those souls. He needed to stop Raphael. But if this was right, then why did he feel so filthy? Perhaps it was because he'd lowered himself to making deals with the king of hell. Maybe because he was contemplating the murder of a friend.

All for the good of the cause.

Nadine looked around again, peeking over her shoulder as he dragged his eyes away from the dusty rafters. Whatever she saw in his face, seemed to chill her. She shivered. Turning to her work, she said, "Try to make it as quick as possible."

And that, _that_, the awful surrender in her voice, the droll certainty that he would just appear behind her one day and stick his blade in her heart was like a shock of cold water to his bleeding conscience. He had asked her for the most sacred gift, and she saw straight through him. Through the formalities and the offers. She believed he would take her soul, whether she was willing or not, and that her only choice was whether or not to die with her dignity intact.

He left in a flutter of wings, too sickened to stay in the room. He may have to come back, if his back-up plan failed, and he might have to do just what she thought he would.

But not now. Just not now.

.O.O.O.

Nadine didn't sleep that night. She wanted to. She felt the need settling over her mind like cottony static, but underpinning it was a tense awareness that an angel wanted to swallow her soul. All his kindness, all her trust – all to be a glorified sheep. And his eyes – she knew that expression. She'd seen it in many faces through the years. It meant he'd reached a decision, whether or not he realized that yet, he had. She'd give her life to know which side of the fence he came down on – she probably would, actually, in the most literal sense.

Before she met the Winchesters, the plan was simple: run, hide, take as many monsters down with her as she could. But that had changed when they added hope to the equation. She realized on some level that it was kind of a sad example of how well she'd cut herself off from her old acquaintances. Some chauvinistic teasing, a lot of glares, one gruff apology, and a musty nest in the kitchen pantry seemed like heaven on earth. But maybe families were supposed to be that way. It wasn't like she'd had a lot of experience with them, not since… well, best not go there just now. The can she was digging through at present was wriggly enough without delving into that can of worms.

And, whatever she had with the Winchesters, it wasn't family. Dean had made that perfectly clear. If she lived past Beltaine, if her protector didn't snuff her before that, maybe she could go back and figure out just what her relationship with the three flannel-ed men could become. Until then, it was best not to linger on possibilities.

The hope was still there, though, the ability to look forward and dream up impossible plans. That was what made Castiel's declaration so devastating. The Winchesters gave her hope in life, and the angel gave her hope that she could keep it. Well, so much for that.

She pulled the Winchesters' note from her pocket and brushed it flat over her work table.

_Are you alright?_

No. Not at all.

She didn't know what to write.

A flutter rustled through the cabin, she jumped a foot in the air, expecting to find Castiel there, ready to do what he must.

But it was only Balthazar. Only Balthazar. Only the most risqué angel in creation. Nothing much at all.

"Jumpy much?"

Usually his accent mixed with the variety of slang the angel employed was enough to set her at ease, but it was difficult to smile, even though he arrived carrying a fresh bottle of scotch. Clearly he meant this to become routine – they were supposed to be drinking buddies and trade gossip about Cas and the Winchesters and anything that may or may not spark the end of the world. But it was impossible for Nadine to pretend she was fine. She could only lie about the cause of her distance.

"You seem distracted," Balthazar said, filling the glasses. "Anything worth sharing?"

"Just… the mark." She gestured to her temple. "You know, Eve's parting gift? It stings like a bitch."

Balthazar leaned forward, squinting at the intricate scar. "Has the pain increased as Beltaine approaches?"

"Maybe. I just know it hurts. Haven't been keeping a journal or anything."

"Mm, fair enough." He sipped, giving her time to anticipate his next question. "Is that all?"

But Nadine had already prepared for his scrutiny. "Yeah. That and the end of the world, the approach of the Wild Hunt, and the fact that I still can't think of what to say to the Winchesters."

He let it go. "How about: 'I'm fine. Balthazar's hot. I'm not moving back in with you losers; get over it.' I think that sums things up very well."

"Whatever. Narcissist."

The angel shrugged off the insult and popped onto the counter, where he merrily drummed his heels as he tasted more of his scotch. Nadine continued working on the arrow she'd been fletching when Balthazar crashed her party. She ignored the drink he poured for her.

"Balthazar?"

"Hm?"

"I was wondering," she smoothed down the feathers in her hand. "How could I defend myself against an angel?"

Now she had his attention. "Why ever would you need to? Cas been coming on too strong?"

If only he knew. "Well, you guys are kinda involved in a civil war, right?"

"Yes? So?"

"So, when we met a feathered brother of yours was trying to pwn me through the pearly gates. I'm just saying, if they find out Cas has this," she waved around her workshop, "they may decide to nip any potential nukes in the bud."

"Well," Balthazar spoke slowly, considering his answer. "There aren't many ways to kill an angel – one of our swords or holy fire are the surest ways – and they're not readily available. But there _is _a sigil I could teach you."

Nadine didn't believe in luck, especially when it happened to her. But she wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, either. "Can you show me?"

He gave her a quick smile. "Certainly." Snatching a scrap of paper and a pencil from the chaos littered over her workspace, he quickly traced out a pattern Nadine realized was similar to the one Cas had drawn on the wall when he arrived wounded at Bobby's. "You must draw this in your own blood, and you activate it by pressing your hand to the center." He slipped it across to her, and she studied the design intently. "Now, that will send an angel an awfully long way away, and it hurts like hell, so please don't test it on me."

She smirked. "Alright."

"Good girl." Balthazar swirled his drink around his mouth, watching her like he knew she had secrets, like he could read them in the way she flinched at his arrival. Or the fact that she hadn't touched her drink. She really hoped he couldn't. Things would get uncomfortable.

"I've been doing some research," he said.

"Oh." She clipped the feathers. "On what?"

"Fey law."

Nadine snorted as she reached for the twine. There was an ugly mess if she'd ever seen one. Honor replaced with legalism and brutality. It wasn't worth the angel's time.

"You seem so convinced that they'll kill you for what you've done, but I don't think that's true. It goes against their codes to ever kill their own kind."

"I'm a kinslayer," she said. "I'm sure they'll make an exception."

"I'm not so sure."

"Goody for you."

"If I'm right," Balthazar continued, "then they'd have to release you once their claim on your service ended."

"Yeah, _if_ they didn't stage a very bloody public execution. And that's kind of a huge if. But you're right. According to law, a changeling may be held a year and a day after returning to Tir na nÓg before the Court loses all right to their service. But that's only if they don't swear fealty to the Courts. If I could withstand a year and a day of intense torture and psychological scarring, I'm sure they'd return what was left to the human realm. Another big if, though."

"True." Balthazar took a longer drink and let the subject drop. Nadine was intensely grateful. She'd honestly rather suffer a drawn-out execution than a drawn out year of torture and mutilation. The fey were wicked and clever. Even if they followed the laws, as Balthazar seemed to think they would, they wouldn't let a rogue fey just wander free and clear over the earth. There would be significant damage, the sort that never healed, and she'd still spend the rest of her life as an exile – a target for every marauding fey this side Tir na nÓg. To escape the Court, she would have to be banished, and banishment included from the laws. She could survive all of that pain, only to be killed by a vengeful relative of one of her kills.

"Stop frowning," Balthazar chided. "It isn't your most appealing expression."

.O.O.O.

Castiel stormed into Crowley's lair, his rage still burning after his battle to save the Winchesters.

"You sent demons after them?"

Crowely, rather than backing away, intimidated by the angel's wrath, stepped up to meet, squaring off with venom in his voice. "You kill my hunters, why can't I kill yours?"

"They're my friends."

The two stood toe to toe, seething.

"You can't have friends," Crowley reminded him. The initial bite faded from his tone, replaced with insistent coaxing. "Not anymore. I mean, my god, you're losing it!"

"I'm fine."

"Yeah," Crowley said. "You're the very picture of mental health. Come on, you don't think I know what this is all about?"

Castiel refused to let his anger die out. "Enlighten me."

"The big lie." The demon was smiling now – just the faintest of smirks. "The Winchesters still buy it. And the little fey chit? She hasn't run. She still has faith in you. The good Cas. The righteous Cas. And as long as they still believe it – _you_ get to believe it. But I've got news for you, kitten. A whore is a whore is a whore. But if you really don't have the junk to do the deed, I'll cut out her pretty little heart for you. I can bleed her, if that's what it takes for you to wake up and smell the souls."

Nadine's defeated face sprang into his mind – the certainty that he would bow to the needs of the war and sacrifice her in order to reach purgatory. Her anger. Her disgust. Her fear. He charged Crowley, seizing him by the lapels of his jacket and slamming him into the wall hard enough to crack the tile.

"I'm only going to say this once," he said. "If you touch a hair on their heads, I will tear it all down. Our arrangement." He gave the demon another light shove, just to emphasize his point. "Everything." Without backing away a single step, he released his grip on the king of hell. "I'm still an angel, and I will bury you."

He left without giving Crowley the chance to wield that forked tongue of his again. What they planned for Nadine was awful, but he would never betray her like that. He would never allow a demon to snuff out of her life. If he took her soul, he would also take her life.

.O.O.O.

As a soldier, Balthazar had always been a little jealous of the cherubim, happy little cupids whose lives revolved around sex and romance. His own history was crusty with ancient blood, and his desire for self realization made him a rebel against his own cause. Even now, after Cas had pulled him by the ear back into the fringes of the fold, he felt like an ill-cut key, struggling to function in his destined role. He could do as he wished, but he had to deal with his extended family's sharp disapproval. And he had to remain close to that disapproval. He couldn't just shove it away and play pretend that he was really alone. Even Cas, for all his good intentions, didn't see him as he once did. And that was a pity.

Life was so much simpler when he was chopping up relics and trading them for desperate souls. But he was the arms dealer no more, and he was more than grateful with every passing day for the glamoured miracle that was Nadine Sheldon. Changeling, weapons manufacturer, and his own personal project, the little flirt was as amusing as guardian duties came.

He poured himself a drink and thought about the good old days when he was willing to die for a cause he considered just, when he still believed in his father. What did he believe in now? Not himself. That was for sure. He had faith in pleasure; it was a reliable fix. Maybe Cas, his brother, the last great hope for their kind. If anyone could force the angels to pull their swords from their asses, it was Castiel – plainspoken, honest, consumed with his naively intent crusade. Or perhaps he could believe in Nadine, in her steady hands and her honest deceptions. He couldn't help but wonder, if Cas should ever wise up as to Nadine's feelings, what the two could accomplish together.

The room filled with the rush of wings.

Castiel's arrival was unexpected, and Balthazar greed him warmly, grateful to be rescued from the depths of his own thoughts.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I am," the other angel cast about for words, seemingly at a loss. "In need of a friend."

"And you chose me over your howler monkeys? I'm so flattered." Balthazar smiled to sooth his words' sting, and his brother took the sarcasm in stride, too absorbed in his frustration to immediately reply. While Cas stewed, Balthazar refilled his drink. He had no doubt Nadine would try to kill him for pursuing his current train of thought. But he was a curious angel, and he bowed to his desires. It was his habit.

"I've been thinking," he said. He kept his back turned as he spoke, letting the words summon some kind of reaction before he turned around. "What are your plans for Nadine." Castiel frowned. "I mean, it's obvious you have something in mind, otherwise why go to all the trouble of babysitting after she split from team Winchester?"

It took a few moments for Castiel to respond, and his jaw worked soundlessly for a minute before he seemed to realize no words were coming out of it. Then he looked away, scowling. When at last he returned his gaze to Balthazar, the rogue angel had to repress a shudder. "She is an important ally, and her powers will only increase with age. Besides," his eyes slipped away, "she may return to the Winchesters in time, and they would probably never forgive me if I didn't help as I could."

Balthazar swirled his bourbon, gazing down into the swirling amber like it was a crystal ball. Well, at least the glass was crystal. His lips puckered into a frown.

"So it means nothing to you?" he asked.

Castiel barely glanced at him, too consumed with the matters swirling through his mind. There was a grumpy need for clarification in his eyes, though, a look Balthazar had grown all too familiar with over the past few months, and he took his cue to continue.

"Nadine," he said. "You have a rather similar past. Both of you sided with humans rather than your own kind, and you've both been hunted for it. Doesn't that arouse any feelings of…" he shrugged, "… I don't know, comradary, perhaps? Sympathy?"

"Perhaps… comradary," Castiel said slowly. "But…" He looked up at his brother. "This war… it has drained me beyond… beyond sympathy."

"And this worries you?"

"Yes."

"Good." Balthazar took a gulp of brandy. "Because it bloody well worries me, too."

"I'll check on Nadine," Castiel said abruptly, straightening.

Balthazar frowned. "Cas, it's Beltaine. Shouldn't we _both_ go this evening?"

"Of course, but I would like… some time alone first. I will call when you are needed."

Balthazar's eyebrows floated up, suspended by surprise. And confusion. Had he read his brother so badly? Was Castiel aware of Nadine's little crush? It was unusual for Balthazar to guess so far from the mark. Well. There was a first time for everything. "Of course. Take your time."

"Thank you, brother." Castiel's voice sounded a little more ragged than usual, and Balthazar set down his glass as his brother vanished, puzzled.

A first time for everything. But a first time for what?

.O.O.O.

He had made his decision. Now it was time to act on it.

Nadine looked up when he came in, and her face betrayed her hesitation. But she stuffed it down admirably, and there was only the faintest trace of a wobble in her voice when she greeted him. "Oh, hey, Cas." She tugged off her heavy work gloves. Beneath were her usual arm warmers – protection from the hostile iron world she lived in. She gave him a weak, tense smile, and the slightest crack grew in his resolve. "Can I help you with anything?"

He flexed his hand, remembering the hot rush of power as he blasted his revenge on Raphael. He wouldn't be weak. He would do what needed to be done. Before the crack could grow (Dean's praise for her pie, their first awkward introduction, the naked red flesh of her burned palms, the arm warmers tugged low), he closed the distance between them and clamped his hand around her neck. This would be quick. He would try to be merciful. Just because the thing needed to be done didn't mean it couldn't be done humanely. He pressed her against the wall and grabbed his blade, raising it as he looked down at her face. This was for all of them – for Dean, and Sam, and Bobby, and all the angels who tried so hard to grasp the concept of free will, who had put their faith in him. This must be done. That was all. But she was staring at him, silent and pale, her eyes wider than he had ever seen them. Wide, he realized, with fear. And he realized that fear was of him, and the crack spread, spider-webbing over the whole.

_Smiter, no smiting!_

This was a mistake.

He dropped her, shuffling several steps back as he reeled under the onslaught of his all too human feelings. Frustration, panic, sorrow, regret. He hadn't even succeeded, and yet he still felt regret. Was this his sign?

When he finally dared to look at Nadine again, she was crouched by an open cabinet, one hand wrapped over the blushing bruises he'd made over her neck, the other reaching for the red sigil painted on the inside of the door. He only had time to take one step before she pressed her hand against the mark, sending him away in a blast of white hot power.

.O.O.O.

She'd learned to note, after all these years, the exact moment things went south. They always did, in the end, and the taste of dead plans and failed inspiration fouled the air the moment Castiel appeared looking so dour and determined the night she received the Winchesters' note. She trusted the angel. It was a bad sign that he didn't trust himself. Or at least it should have been. High on the fresh hope the Winchesters had sent her and looking forward once more to life past Beltaine, she'd ignored the warnings. Now she was paying the price for her optimism.

Nadine took the time to finally write the Winchesters their over-due response. Then she grabbed the backpack she'd prepared after her talk with Balthazar and booked it for the woods. It was always possible that Balthazar would come and find her before the Wild Hunt descended on her, but she wasn't so sure he could hold them off alone, and she wasn't sure what sort of errand Cas had sent him on. So she wasn't going to wait around and just hope for the best. She was no damsel in an ivory tower. She was a monster in a hunting cabin, and it was time to get while the getting was still good.

She had two options, and death was at hand, whichever she picked. Castiel had made his decision. It was time to make her own. And it was already made. She made it the minute she sent him from the cabin.

The moon was full, and it illuminated the woods with silver. A dull glow saturated the air, leaving only the deepest shadows in the heart of the woods an inky black. Nadine all but flew. Her feet knew woods well, and her night vision was excellent. When the first hunting horns echoed through the trees, still far away, Nadine was already four miles from the cabin. She had no idea how long it would take Castiel to return. Probably longer than it would take the Hunt to catch up. Her scent was fresh, and she had a homing beacon scratched into her head. They had every advantage. The hope that she could outrun them was rapidly degenerating into the stubborn refusal to say die. She understood the facts, but she wasn't going to just lie down and die, no matter who asked her to.

As she darted through the woods, a root caught the toe of her boot, and she went crashing onto all fours. There was a strange shape under her hand, a deep indentation in the soft loam. The curve was firm under her palm, and Nadine's clever fingers quickly discovered the hoof prints that littered the forest floor. She almost choked on her fear. Her stomach threatened to rebel, and she clamped a hand flat over her belly as she stood and stumbled on.

The Hunt wasn't just behind her. They were ahead. And around. They had already traversed this territory. She didn't even have the advantage of mutual ignorance concerning the terrain.

The horns rang again, and a strange howling, made by no dog, quivered through the air. Nadine picked up the pace. Another blast, to the left now, answered by a howl to the right. Maybe they'd already surrounded her, had honed in on the cabin before she even left, and she merely stumbled out into their midst.

A branch caught her pack, and rather than fighting the tree for it, she slipped her arms from the straps and let the back sag down from the tree like a shapeless Christmas ornament. She had faith in her abilities to beg access to a phone if she survived, and she wouldn't miss it if they caught her. She'd be too busy missing things like food, water, sunlight, and life with functioning parts. And the boys. She'd miss the boys. And Balthazar. Maybe even Castiel. Maybe. Hard to tell.

A voice carried over the Hunt's rising din. "Nadine!"

Nope. She wouldn't miss him.

Castiel stood on a little hill just a few hundred yards away, his whole face bent and furrowed with extreme anxiety. Nadine spared half an instant to feel bad for wrecking his plan, but she'd just graduated from pawn to queen, and even if she got killed for all her labor, she didn't regret it. The only one allowed to play games with her life was her. She would die for friends, family, even a stranger if they were desperate enough, but she wouldn't die for a cause, especially not like this. The end did not justify the means. As a monster, she knew that. As an angel, he should have. It was too late for her now, but she hoped he learned the lesson. The Winchesters may suspect that something was off, but they couldn't possibly how far from center their wingman had drifted. It didn't look like she'd get the chance to tell them.

The wind was alive. That was no mere bit of poetic license, either – it was truly alive, crying with the voices of a thousand predators, sweeping through every nook and cranny, looking for the guilty culprit, the quarry of the Hunt. They had precious few moments remaining.

"Nadine," he called over the wind's racket. "Please. Just come back to the cabin. Balthazar and I can protect you."

She stopped just long enough to turn around and look at him. Her words carried effortlessly through the din. "I'm in control of one thing, Castiel, and that's the way I die." In that moment, she was one of the fiercest creatures Castiel had ever seen, and he saw her animal instinct to flee; The aggression she controlled so well flashed in her eyes as she bared her teeth. "I'm not your pawn." The sound of approaching horses thundered through the forest, causing the ground itself to tremble. They were out of time. The desperate rage faded from her expression, leaving behind the naked terror of someone who just realized she'd thrown herself in front of a speeding train. And yet, even then, she was brave. "Goodbye, Castiel."

The ground rippled. The horsemen arrived. They travelled at a gallop, leaping over fallen logs and veering around trees, and their shadows flowed out in inky duplicates, coursing through the leaves and breathing into the wind. In an instant, they converged on the changeling. Each rider threw a hook, linked back to them by a long silver chain. The curved metal sank into Nadine before she could make any kind of defense, biting deep as her attackers circled, wrapping her in bloodied chains. Castiel surged forward, burning with grace, but as Nadine screamed, the whole scene warped and shimmered. The riders faded into shadows, drawing Nadine down into the earth, pulling her apart until nothing but shadows skittered through the forest. In a moment, even those disappeared.

The angel stood there, dumb-struck, blade in hand, but no enemies to slay. Nadine's blood was painted in little sprays around the clearing where she had finally stopped running.

He knew that he could never tell the Winchesters.

**A/N: Has it been too long since I last updated? Why yes. Yes it has. But only two of you reviewed, so that vindictive sliver of my psyche is satisfied. **

**And so ends Arch 1. Let's talk shop - I WILL continue this story, and I already have bits of the next chapter written, but I'm dealing with rather epic levels of crap on the other side of the looking glass, and my other writing has been suffering from neglect, and that's not a good thing. So I'm going to alternate weeks. One week - fanfic. The next week - original stuff. This means you should see an update every other week. Gives ya'll lots of time to review, right? I'm a review whore, but pretty much all writers are. Our only compensation for fanfic is interaction with readers. So pay the piper, or Crowley will sic his hellhounds on you.**

_**Thanks to reviewers! You poke the muse and lure it out of its hole with candy. Much appreciated. **_


	13. Arch 2: Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.**

**Arch Two: Briars**

**Chapter One: First Lesson**

He realized something was wrong when she didn't answer his summons. The link, given under duress, was a shotgun shell strung on a chain. Dean had kept it in his pocket out of habit. At first, he expected to use it to drag her back when she tried to run out on her bargain, then he held on to it because, really, what else was he supposed to do with it? When Goggles first vanished, he'd been all for using the summoning link to send her magic-ed ass banging back into Bobby's living room, but Sam said no.

"She needs some time," Sam said. "Just let her figure things out. Cas is already looking for her, right? If he can't find her, then we can make sure she's safe. Until then – just give her some space, okay?"

Dean sniped back about Sam understanding all this girly touchy-feely crap a little too well, but he'd consented, and so they waited. Of course, Cas found her and spirited her off to the cabin in the woods, and they didn't summon her at all.

Then Bobby and Sam started getting serious in their doubts about Cas, and none of them thought about Nadine until the vanishing cabinet arrived. Suddenly they were concerned. They remembered her. They realized where she was, who she was with, and what that might mean. Their tidily wrapped loose ends were fraying. Sam wrote the note, and they waited for a response. They waited.

And they waited.

And then – an answer.

_Thank you. Goodbye. _

Dean didn't wait for Sam to put down the note before he grabbed the shotgun shell and shouted Nadine's name. She failed to appear. And that was how he knew. Something bad had happened to Goggles, and by the grim looks Sam and Bobby wore, they thought Cas had something to do with it. Plain old logic backed the theory (the angel was a little off lately, and he was strangely interested in Nadine, and she'd been all alone with him…), but Dean's job was hunting monsters parents patiently explained to frightened children didn't exist. Couldn't logically exist. So screw logic – there had to be another explanation.

Dean kept calling, but Nadine never answered.

One domino crashed into the next – Superman, Kryptonite – and soon enough he was standing in a demon lair, watching Bobby strike a row of matches and drop them into a ring of holy oil. The flames licked up around Cas, trapping the flighty angel, giving the hunters the opportunity to ask the questions they'd been wrestling with for so long.

"You gotta look at me, man," he said, clinging to the dying hope that there was an explanation. He knew there was no chance of an easy one, but some excuse for the angel's actions… he needed that. "You gotta level with me and tell me what's going on." He was direct, demanding the same from his friend. "Look me in the eye and tell me you're not workin' with Crowley."

No one liked the answers.

Castiel couldn't do it, couldn't hold his gaze, and dropped his eyes.

Reality punched Dean in the gut like the recoil from a shotgun. "Son of a bitch."

The punches kept coming. Castiel was unrepentant, determined to defend himself, trying to convince them that all was well. Dean stood with Sam and Bobby, the rest of his broken family of degenerate heroes, and watched his best friend pull apart his world, word by word. When he'd first met the angel, he didn't think he could possibly lay his faith in Castiel, heaven's scruffy retriever. But Cas defied all expectations, and before he realized it, Dean had a man he could call, unflinchingly, a friend, a brother even.

But the truth kept pouring out of Cas's mouth, tugged along by the hunters' looks of disappointed revulsion, and it was uglier than any lie.

"You have to trust me," the angel insisted.

"Trust you?" Sam asked. "How in the hell are we supposed to trust you now?"

"I'm still me," Castiel said. "I'm still your friend."

They'd all been dancing around one question, hoping to learn the answer at an angle, like the blow would hurt less if it wasn't a direct hit. But it needed asking, and the time had come. "Where is Nadine?" Dean demanded. His voice didn't waver, but his eyes did. He was looking at Cas's hands, at his sword, looking for blood. "What did you do with her, Cas? Where is she?"

Calmly, with studied precision, Cas answered, "Nadine is no longer your concern." He inclined his head, slowed his words like his was speaking to a child. "She left _you_, Dean. She chose to leave. Your association is over."

"That kid bled for us, Cas," Dean said, pointing at the floor. "She chose to leave, but she chose to stay, too. She picked us, and we let her down." He spread his arms. "I couldn't protect her, and maybe that's my fault. But she is still my concern. She is still part of this team. Even if she's not family, she's my responsibility, and I can't just pretend I don't owe her that because she chose a different road. Now tell me the truth, Cas." His arms fell. His breath shook. He needed this, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't like the answer. "What did you do to Nadine?"

Cas looked away, just for a moment, and that was all Dean needed. It was just like before, when he'd ask about Crowley. He stumbled back a step, his faith in the angel crumbling to ashes. "_Cas_." Dean drew himself up, back rigid, jaw set, and stabbed a finger at his best friend. "No. No, you look me in the eye, you son of a bitch, and you tell me the truth."

"Nadine Sheldon has no bearing on this conversation…"

"Like hell she doesn't," Bobby snapped. "That girl trusted you, Castiel. She thought you were a real bona fide hero. Now you tell us straight – what happened?"

Castiel drew himself up, shoulders tense, and set his mouth in a firm line. "Nothing happened."

"Yeah," Sam scoffed, "because you're so determined to cover up nothing."

Cas shook his head, and Dean held up a hand. "Just… tell us where she is. We just want to know she's okay."

"She's gone, Dean," Castiel said. "She left. She left you. She left us." As he spoke, his voice grew louder until he was nearly shouting. "She's gone and she's never coming back." He stopped, turned, reigned himself in, and outside the ring of fire the three hunters exchanged glances.

And all Dean could think was that he already knew. He knew when she didn't answer the summons.

.O.O.O.

Nadine did not remember her trip to Tir na nÓg. As the Hunt dragged her from the clearing, her consciousness flew apart, torn by pain. It coalesced again in a dark room that smelled like loam, where she woke shivering. There were no chains or ropes binding her, but she was too tired to move, and she didn't fight the urge to just lie there in the dark, still as death.

For a few moments, she considered the possibility that she really was dead. If she was, then where had she gone? This couldn't be heaven, but it could be hell. Or it could just be some empty old warehouse on earth. Wouldn't it be iron if after all that fuss she died and went to purgatory? It was so ironic it hurt, and Nadine bit her bottom lip to stop its trembling. She squeezed her eyes shut, and a pool of hot tears fringed her lashes. What happened now? If she was dead, how would she know? She didn't have to wonder long.

Hinges squealed, releasing a block of light that fell full on her face, blinding her. Once she blinked away her bedazzlement, she saw two figures in the doorway, men with sharp faces and tremendous eyes, dressed in silver armor etched with a thousand curling spells. Fey. She wasn't dead; she was in Tir na nÓg. She couldn't decide whether that was better or worse than death.

While she processed her extended lease on life, the two warriors stepped into the room and hoisted her up. Stars exploded behind her eyes. The sensation of a hundred scabs tearing open jolted her, and when she glanced down at herself the light revealed great smears and splashes of rusty scarlet.

The clearing. Cas. The Hunt. Hooks and chains. It must have taken some extraordinary magic to keep her breathing after that ride.

Her escorts hauled her through a series of tunnels, and Nadine made no effort to resist them. Were they taking her to face trial before all the assembled Courts? Would they execute her now, or torture her first? Whatever she was expecting, it wasn't the plain oak door they stopped at. It opened soundlessly before them, granting them access without so much as a knock or a hand at the knob. Inside was a long wooden table bristling with leather straps, a desk piled high with books, and three women dressed in long gowns of black feathers.

For the first time since she'd woken, Nadine put up a fight. It wasn't much of one, disoriented and weak as she was, but she gave what little she had to stay out of that room. It was all for nothing. The warriors barely struggled to contain her mad thrashing, and in moments they had her bound to the table.

The warriors bowed to the black-clad trio and took their leave. The women approached the table.

"We are the Morrigan," they said, voices blending and clashing in a crudely unified sound. "It is our duty and honor to instruct you."

One stepped away from her sisters and picked up a long needle. "The first lesson is subservience."

The second sister handed the first a long black string, which the first deftly threaded through her needle. As the first sister prepared her weapon, the others came to stand on either side of Nadine's head, settling cool hands on her face, neck, and hair. Then the first sister pressed the needle against the corner of Nadine's mouth.

"We will begin with silence."

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who favorited this story and added it to their alert lists. Even more thanks to my two reviewers. Favoriting and following are fantastic, but right now one of the main reasons I post fic is to interact with fellow nerds, so without that interaction, the value of fic writing decreases. I'm not planning on ditching this story, because it's still fun for me, even if no one reviews, but without the pressure of reviews and stimulating feedback, I don't feel the need to crank out regular updates. So - I will update, but this is going to the back of my to-do list. More hobby, less responsibility. I used to write under a different pen name, and I could pull five reviews per chapter on a bad day, over ten on a good day, so I'm pretty badly spoiled, I suppose. **

**That said, thanks to my reviewers!**

**Just someone: THANK YOU! Your review actually came as a nice little birthday present for me, so that was brilliant timing! Thank you, thank you and thank you again! **


	14. Arch 2: Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Me no own, you no sue.**

**Arch Two: Briars**

**Chapter Two: Blood and Bone**

The Morrigan were all mouth and eyes. Bloody red lips. Eyes like cold breath in a fog. They presided over her education.

Her lips were sewn shut on her first night as a reclaimed changeling, and they stayed closed for the next six weeks. The Morrigan sustained her by magic, keeping her body fed and hydrated through sorcery while they worked to break her soul.

By the time she could scream, could call on the names of her friends, her chosen family, she had lost all desire to. She still screamed, but it was a reflexive sound of distress, not a plea for rescue, for comfort. She knew better. There was no rescue from Tir na nÓg. The only comfort was the absence of immediate violence. Nothing escaped the realm of the fey, not even prayers, apparently. While her lips were sealed, Nadine prayed for Cas, and prayed for Balthazar. It didn't matter which one answered. Death and rescue – they were much the same.

The Morrigan's education wasn't all needles and kinky torture play. Some of it actually was… educational. The desk and books weren't there for show. Nadine had suspected they were for stage dressing and symbolism when she first came to the room, but on the first morning, after they'd sewn her mouth, taken her clothes and forced her into a linen shift, the second sister sat Nadine at the desk and opened one of the ancient volumes. The text was old, predating the Roman alphabet. The script was Ogham, and the language was a bizarre flurry of old Gaelic, Tamil, and Norse. Nadine immediately despaired of ever understanding it. If she failed this test, would they sew her fingers together?

But the second sister simply put her finger to the stick-like letters and began to read aloud a recipe for a potion counteracting the worst effects of iron poisoning. Almost instinctively, Nadine leaned in toward the book, squinting at the page, intent on peeling the secrets away from the ink and parchment. As the second taught their pupil, the third sister arranged a selection of bottles and dried herbs over the table Nadine had spent the night sweating and bleeding over. She set a silver bowl in the center of the supplies, and then both sisters beckoned Nadine forward.

She hesitated.

The second sister gave her a simple smile that did nothing to sooth Nadine's anxiety. "Show us what you have learned."

Always a quick student, Nadine succeeded in brewing the antidote on her first try. Her teachers stood in a semicircle around her, pride easing their postures and kindling warm behind their eyes.

"Well done."

The first sister brought out a whip, and while her sisters held Nadine against the table, the beat the memory of the day's lesson into her pupil's back.

.O.O.O.

There was nothing worse than a mouthy monster, and the leviathans were nothing _but_ mouth. Teeth, tongue and 'tude. Bobby looked at the punk currently tied up in his basement and wondered what he'd done lately to piss karma off so badly.

This was a lucky break, though. He needed to remember that. They needed information, and this was important. It was their big chance to get the ugly details on their latest adversary. Resigning himself to these facts, he tried to relax his stance as the beast prattled on, looking for buttons to push on its captors.

"We were all inside the angel," the leviathan said. "We weren't delusional – not like he was – we couldn't see the past, but we could see him. We could see the heart of him. And whenever his thoughts turned to the little fey? Guilt. Buckets of it. It was rotting him almost as fast as we were. So what do you think? Think your precious angel killed your pet? It's kinda disappointing. Fey always had a nice crunch."

Bobby took the liberty of tossing a full bucket of borax in the monster's face, and the three hunters looked on in stony silence as the creature howled and sizzled. "Bring her up again," Bobby said. "I dare you."

.O.O.O.

There was so little time and so very much to learn.

And so many fun ways to torment a rogue changeling in the name of rehabilitation.

Nadine understood. The Morrigan would punish her for all her crimes while physically and mentally reforming her. When they finished, justice would be done and a new underling would be ready to join the Courts. Everything they taught her was meant to make her useful, but not meant to build her up. Positive reinforcement was as alien to the Morrigan as tofu in Texas. Nadine could only suffer through the tortures with what dignity remained, clinging to obstinate determination. Death before slavery.

At least she never confused the Morrigan's instruction as generosity. Never as kindness, either.

"You must understand what you are," the third sister intoned as she traced her little knife through the natural vines and curls patterned over Nadine's skin.

The Morrigan had learned quickly that she was uncomfortable without her glamour, and the magic they poured into their labor would leave scars immune to such tricks. If she ever escaped, her fey markings would show as twisting scars, visible to any human, any mirror. The torture took away her illusions and forced her to accept what she hid. It was also incredibly painful. A perfect method of instruction for the Morrigan.

"Our beauty lies in our horror. Our monstrosity is etched in our skin. Accept these scars, and let it brand your very soul. Take this lesson. Let it mark you always."

.O.O.O.

Dean's world crumbled apart. Cas was gone. Leviathans roamed the world. Bobby was dead, clinging to the boys' lives as a fading ghost. And now Sam. Sam, the hinge-pin of Dean's entire universe, his baby brother, his greatest responsibility, was dying. Plagued by visions of Lucifer and all his time in the Pit, Sam had lost the ability to sleep, and soon he would be facing death.

Of all the ways to go – his baby brother's nightmares were killing him. And there was nothing Dean could do to chase them away.

And now is only hope rested in a dead man. Of all the losses he'd suffered, of all the people he'd lost, Dean wasn't sure he'd pick Cas of all his lost loved ones to return. He wasn't unhappy that the angel had survived, but he wasn't at ease with it, either. There was too much unresolved fear and betrayal for the angel's miraculous resurrection to rest easy in Dean's mind. After all, it was Cas's fault Sam was locked in a mental institution in the first place.

He stood outside the hospital, a demon and an angel at his side. Dean didn't like the naked innocence in the angel's eyes. There was no warrior in his face, only unguarded confusion and anxiety. It made Dean's anger taste sour. He'd prefer to yell at his old friend with a clear conscience. But there wasn't time. Sammy needed him. He rummaged through his weapons, trying desperately to piece together plan B. The trench coat was neatly folded in the Impala's trunk, cleaned as much as possible, just under Dean's elbow. Leviathan stains simply didn't fade with a few cap-fulls of Tide. Amnesiac Cas peered over his shoulder and frowned.

"What are those?"

Dean glanced over his array of weapons with a wry smirk. "These? What can I say – I'm a collector. You won't find a bigger stash of antique egg beaters in North America. No. Seriously, these are monster-hunting tools. What do they look like to you?"

Emanuel, Cas, shook his head, hunching uncomfortably under Dean's sarcasm. "No, I meant," he pointed, "those."

Dean followed the line of the finger, uncomfortable anticipation building in his gut. And, yeah, it was right to. Pseudo-Cas was pointing to Nadine's goggles, safely tucked beneath the folds of Cas's trench, which Dean had just nudged aside. He closed his eyes and flared his nostrils, struggling to take deep breaths as he rested his elbow against the open trunk. "We can deal with that later, man. Right now let's just focus on the task at hand, alright?"

"But – I," Pseudo-Cas stammered, still fixed on the goggles, perplexed. "They're important." He pointed again, more insistently. "It's like… Those mean something to me." Pseudo-Cas looked at him expectantly and held out his hand. "May I?"

Slowly, begrudging every second the nerdy accessories were out of the Impala, he complied with the angel's request. He didn't look as Emanuel examined them, couldn't stand to see him holding the last bit of Goggles on earth. It hurt him to see those things, and it hurt him worse to remember _why_ it hurt, and _who_ was to blame for that ache.

Psuedo-Cas returned the goggles, bemused. "There's almost… I'm sorry."

"Forget it," Dean said.

.O.O.O.

Not every day was so organized. Not all lessons were so straight forward. She puzzled for months over some and never arrived at a reasonable answer. The only truth she took away was pain, and perhaps that was lesson enough.

One day the second sister strapped her to the table and pried open her mouth with a lever. She dropped a seed down Nadine's throat, and guided it into her stomach with careful massaging and a touch of magic.

As she worked she spoke. "There are two ways to spend the spring. A plant will grow and bloom. The soil will suffer as the plant's roots pierce it, as the sprout steals nutrients and becomes stronger at the expense of its host."

It took a moment for the seed to germinate. But then it grew quickly, a blossoming torture that spread with mindless determination. The first few curls of stem and leaves were strange but little more than uncomfortable. It fluttered in her stomach, like a case of horrible butterflies, only smoother and heavier. But the bigger it became, the faster it grew, and soon it was shoving its way up her trachea, sprouting thorns that sprang into the lining of her throat as the sprouts swelled and rose. It was lucky that the plant followed the path of least resistance, otherwise Nadine might have been treated to the show of a rose bush bursting through her stomach. As it was, she choked, gagging on thorns and blood as the wicked vines finally found her mouth, curling up and out, blooming when the fat buds hit the air. Thorns pressed into her lips, piercing deep and freeing little streams of blood that flowed down her face and into her hair.

The Morrigan waved her hand across Nadine's face, and the plant dissolved into a fine dust that Nadine cleared with a few weak coughs."Spring comes, regardless of our desires. You must choose how to spend it."

Still choking on blood, Nadine croaked, "What if I'd rather be a gardener?" Her voice was wet, and it carried up flecks of blood that added to the spatter over her face.

"That is for the Lords and Ladies. You will not grow so tall for a long time." Coolly, the Morrigan turned away. When she returned, she held another seed. "I believe we must repeat the lesson."

.O.O.O.

Alone in the hospital room with the broken angel, Dean saw his opportunity, and he felt the hurt spite welling up his throat, demanding action. It was the first chance he'd had to ask, and after all the hints, all the dodges, all the lies, he wanted his answer.

"You never did say it," he said. Castiel looked up at him, eyes wide, filled with an innocence so broken his mind had reverted to near infancy. Dean steeled himself and spat out the one word he knew would hurt the angel more than any other. "Nadine, Cas. You never said what you did." As expected, the angel flinched away from the name, his eyes fluttered, his lips arched down in a frown. "I deserve to know, Cas, _we_ deserve to know."

"Nadine." Cas's voice broke off the end of final syllable, like he could barely stand the pain of voicing her name. Dean couldn't muster the pity to give a shit. That name hurt him, too, and it was time the angel confessed, said with his own mouth what he'd done to the changeling. Castiel mustered his courage with a deep breath and tried again. "What I did was… unforgiveable. Or, rather, what I tried to do, and the consequences of my actions…" He trailed off, letting his eyes wander as his voice petered out.

It wasn't good enough. "It's time, man," Dean said. "It's time you told me the truth. You can look at the wall, or play your stupid little game, but you keep those lips moving until you've spit it out, and I mean spit it _all_ out. What happened to Nadine?"

"Dean." Cas looked up at him, looking for all the world like a child who'd just realized why his dog wouldn't wake up, but was hoping someone would say he was wrong. "Dean, I tried to kill her."

A few breaths brought Dean's temper under control, but it was cooled even faster by the painfully bright hope his old friend's words conjured. "What do you mean 'tried,' Cas? Is Nadine still alive? Where is she?"

"I don't know." The angel's eyes fell to his board game, where he watched his fingers trace the letters on the cardboard over, and over, and over, and… "I was going to take her soul, consume it, hoping that it would allow me to pass into Purgatory."

"But that didn't happen." There was no room for argument.

"No, it didn't," Cas agreed softly. "She was ready for me. She made a sigil – banished me to the north of China, near the Russian border. By the time I got back…"

"She was gone." Dean leaned back, arms crossed, letting his smile grow free. "She outsmarted you, and she went underground. Good girl, Goggles."

"It was Beltaine." The smile froze, withered, died. Of all the nights, of all the times. Beltaine. She'd left to protect them from the Hunt, he understood that. But she'd stayed with the angel so he'd protect _her_. No angel, and a host of ranging monsters following a homing beacon etched into her face.

"No."

Cas rushed on. The dam had fractured and now the truth, that ugly truth Dean demanded so fiercely, wouldn't stop pouring from the angel's lips. "I knew I was wrong. I tried to get back in time, but she reached the clearing, and I couldn't…" he took a breath, "I couldn't reach her. Not in time." His eyes flickered back to Dean's face, though the hunter refused to meet them. "I saw the Hunt take her, Dean."

"No."

Wordlessly, Cas stroked the board game.

.O.O.O.

It was impossible to immunize herself to the pain. Her tolerance increased, and she screamed less. She mastered the art of wrapping heavy layers of numbing suppression and denial around her thoughts and feelings, the illusive thing that must be her soul. But she felt every slice, shuddered under every lash.

She learned quickly, and she learned a lot. She understood suffering all too well. Eventually, the Morrigan deemed it time to complete her education. It was a shame she would disappoint them.

How long had she been there, trapped in the sunless Courts of Tir na nÓg? More than days, more than weeks. Months? It seemed likely. Time moved differently between different realms, Nadine new that, but she didn't know how great a difference existed between Earth's passage of time and the Courts'. It seemed too fortunate that an entire year had passed. Too fortunate. It couldn't be true. But they must be approaching the deadline of acceptance. If she didn't swear herself to a Court soon, they would lose all authority over her, and she would be returned to the world of mortals, just as Balthazar predicted.

She sat in the chair, looking across the desk at the assembled Morrigan, careful to keep her expression blank and her spine straight. Her hands rested folded in her lap. Her feet were pressed to the floor. It was easy to assume the attitude of servitude. It was unusual for all three sisters to attend a lesson, and she watched with no little trepidation as the first sister moved to speak.

"The Courts bid for your service," the first sister said.

"Swear yourself to your new Lord."

"And we will deliver you to the Court."

Nadine waited until the last sister had finished, following protocol, waiting for her turn to speak with all the respect of a true bondswoman. Then she opened her lips, scarred from the thread that once bound them, and said, "No."

Her soul, wrapped tight and protected, held strong. She was still her own, and she would not bow to the Courts. Hope kindled, warming her. She had survived. She had endured. Would she escape?

"Have we not instructed you?"

"Have you not learned?"

"Will you not serve?"

Again, she waited for her turn. "No."

The Morrigan bowed in acquiescence, and the hope flared so bright in Nadine's chest it burned. They accepted her decision. They could not force her to join a Court. If she was right… if Balthazar was correct, then they'd return her. She would be free. She could sleep without shackles and wake without fearing knives and whips.

She could see the Winchesters.

She could see Bobby.

Balthazar.

And… Castiel. Did he still want her soul?

As she fell into her musings, the Morrigan lifted their heads, and Nadine realized with a sense of abject horror that she had miscalculated. Balthazar was right; they could not force her. But they could make sure the thing they returned was so broken it would never rise against them.

It was written in their eyes. The Morrigan had never been gentle teachers, but the beneficence of their savage instruction seemed truly kind compared to the masks of brutality raised to face Nadine now.

She would survive, but she may not wish to when it was over.

**A/N: A choppy, awkward little chapter, and it was tricky to write, but necessary. Sorry it took so long, but - dang - I should threaten more often, because you beautiful people gave me a TON of reviews! **

**Confession - I'm not entirely sure where the fic is going in the latter parts of this arch, so suggestions and requests will be considered. Drop me a review and you may just get your wish. *Hinthint***

**Replies to Anons:**

**Nao: Wow! Thank you very much! I'm thrilled you enjoyed it so much, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as well. Thanks again!**

**Ali: Thanks for your review! I don't know why I don't reviews, either, as is evidenced by my extensive whining. Glad you took the time to, though! It's immensely encouraging. Thanks again!**


	15. Arch 2: Chapter 3

**(The first two sections take place during "What's Up, Tiger Mommy?" The third begins at the end of "A Little Slice of Kevin".)**

**Arch Two: Briars**

**Chapter Three: Humpty Dumpty Had a Great Fall**

Things were just… weird. He and Sam were back together – as Dean knew they would be, even during the roughest fights in purgatory. But things weren't as he'd expected them to be, not quite. He had Sam, but it was a different Sam than he remembered. Even after Cas 'fixed' the damage he'd done, there remained a haunted gleam in his brother's eyes, an awful understanding of true desperation. Dean hated that look, and he hated the fact he could do nothing about it even more. Now, though…

The look was gone. Sammy seemed whole, healthy – happy even. And Dean couldn't stand the fact that his baby brother, the center of his world, could be happy without him, could even be happy when his brother was trapped in purgatory. But, as always, there was the job, and it just wouldn't be a real day in the office without the fate of the world hanging in the balance. Dean had more immediate concerns than family drama.

The biggest concern was the fact that they'd run out of contingency plans. As he wandered back towards the auction room where Plutus was trying to sell the Word, he couldn't help thinking of Goggles. All those monsters, all this showmanship – she'd show them how it was done. A smile flickered over his lips. She was a monster, no doubt, but she was their monster to the end.

He palmed the shotgun shell in his pocket – her token – and murmured, "Could sure use your help right now, Nadine." It was true, and the magnitude of her loss blindsided him for a minute. All the allies they'd lost, all the friends who died – none followed the same rules as the changeling, and few held the same potential. If she'd survived, how might things be different? Would he have gone to purgatory? Would Sam have turned his back on hunting? Would Bobby…

Some things were just better left alone. Dean shook himself and marched back into the auction. Sam looked up as Dean slapped his arm, eyes wide with a kind of helpless hope. Dean took his seat. They were in _so_ far over their heads…

"Plan C tanked."

"Maybe you should try plan D for dumbass," Crowley drawled.

Dean whipped around to glare at him just as the door slammed open. Several hardened monsters jumped, but unfortunately Crowley wasn't one of them. Everyone turned to look as a figure shrouded from head to toe in miles of black lace and taffeta strode into the room. For an instant Dean assumed it was a demon, but the bemused sneer on Crowley's face suggested otherwise, and Dean rethought his initial assessment. The woman – only a chick would wear a get-up like that – chose an isolated seat towards the back and sank in a dark flutter of veils.

"A thousand apologies for my tardiness." It wasn't a real voice. It couldn't be. The words were carried on a whisper – toneless, colorless. They should be too soft to hear, but somehow they carried throughout the room, clear as a shout.

Bo, serving as auctioneer, offered a polite nod of greeting at moved on. "Our next lot, the Word of God. Capital G. Very old, very rare."

Crowley instant rose from his chair, slipping his hands into his pockets as he smiled down at the hunters. "Three _million_ dollars."

Sam and Dean were both impressed against their will. "Whoa."

In the back, Samandriel rose. "The _Mona Lisa_."

"The real _Mona Lisa_," Crowley countered. "Where she's topless."

Dean puckered his lips. Yup. Definitely in over their heads.

"Vatican City."

"Alaska."

Bo frowned. "Palin? And the Bridge to Nowhere? No thanks."

Judging by Crowley's expression, the game had begun to lose some of its charm. "Alright, the moon."

Dean could not, just could _not_, believe what he'd just heard. "You're betting the moon?"

"Yeah, claimed it for hell," he said. "Think a man named Buzz gets to go into space without makin' a deal?"

"Ah, I'm sorry, gentlemen," Bo said. "It seems our reserve price has not been met. So, in order to stimulate the bidding we're going to add an item to this lot: Kevin Tran, prophet of the lord."

As Mrs. Tran yelled, Dean and Sam surged to their feet. But it was already done – Kevin was on the stage at the foot of Plutus' chair, bound in fat chains.

A roaring filled Dean's ears. This couldn't be happening. Losing the tablet was one thing, but losing Kevin was another. They'd failed to protect him before, and they couldn't afford to fail him again. There was too much at stake. What if Crowley got him? What if the freak who bartered five eighths of a virgin got him?

"So out of your league," Crowly murmured.

And it was true. They were helpless. Nothing they could offer would free Kevin from that stage.

"I'll give you whatever you want," Mrs. Tran was saying. "I have a 401K. My house…" Plutus glanced down at his newspaper, disinterested.

"Good effort, Ms. Tran," Bo condescended. "But I'm afraid this is a little out of your price range."

She looked up, like she was praying, and shook her head. "My soul."

"Mom, don't!"

With more conviction, she said, "I bid my soul."

"Are you sure?" Dean asked. "That's a big move." He'd seen what soullessness did to a person. He'd seen what it did to _Sam_. She might very well save her son, but the damage she could do to him down the line… it was risky, and costly.

The drama had pulled Plutus back out of his reading. "Interesting."

"If it's souls that you're after," Crowley said as he paced to the end of the row, "I can get you a million souls." His face beamed with confidence. This was a game he knew well.

Though the hunters may be out of their depth, Dean wasn't about to let Kevin's mom hawk her soul when there were other options. He spun to look at Samandriel. "Hey, fly boy, you gonna get in on this?"

"We guard the souls in heaven," the angel explained. "We don't horse trade them."

Crowley, satisfied that his greatest opponent was out of the running, returned his focus to Plutus. "So we have a deal?"

"I bid this seeing stone," the late arrival said in her not-quite-voice. The king of hell whirled to scowl at her as she pulled a glass orb, completely black, from the endless folds of her viels. "Mage-make."

Bo glanced over his shoulder to see his employer shake his head. He looked back, opened his mouth, and was cut off.

"I wasn't finished."

Crowley rolled his eyes and Sam fidgeted. Beside the brothers, Mrs. Tran tensed, lips pinched thin. They couldn't afford to lose this bid. They just couldn't.

"I offer this seeing stone," the woman breathed. "Mage-make, newly crafted." Murmurs rose around the room, and Dean glanced at Sam, hoping his walking encyclopedia could explain the sudden interest. So it was new. What did that matter? But even Crowley was paying attention, his eyes squinted in concentration as he zeroed in on the stranger, like he was trying to see through the shroud obscuring the woman's face. Unaffected by the stir, the woman continued, neither rushing nor slowing for the crowd. "And with it, the name of its maker."

The room exploded, and Plutus leaned forward in his chair, pressing both feet flat on the ground. "Is this true?" he asked. "You have the name of a living mage?"

The woman nodded. "I will swear to it under any oath you choose."

Plutus sat back, but his languor had vanished. He gave his man the nod. Smiling cordially, the auctioneer sang out, "Sold! The tablet and the prophet to the lady in black for a seeing stone and a name."

Mrs. Tran swayed, and Dean snatched her elbow before she could topple. With Sam's help, he guided her down to her chair.

"I have one condition."

The auctioneer froze, smiled again, and looked at his boss again for directions.

"I would like an interview with the prophet before I release the name."

The god of greed didn't even hesitate. "Granted."

.O.O.O.

Kevin shivered in his chair, trying to squirm out of the handcuffs that clipped his wrists to the arms of the seat. How was he supposed to handle this? What was he supposed to do? If the Winchesters were in his position, how would they break out? Kevin had found during the past few months on the run that he was very good at hiding, but he hid because he knew he was a bad fighter. There was no way to run from the cuffs around his hands, and there was no one around to help him.

What was he supposed to do?

Forget what to _do_; he didn't even know what to think. He was so happy his mother hadn't lost her soul, but he wondered if that would have been better than becoming the slave of some creepy widow monster. _What_ had won him in the auction, anyway? That voice… it was like nothing he'd ever heard.

The door to the deserted auction room opened, and the stranger walked in. Kevin Tran was alone with the monster.

"I won't tell you anything," he said. He tried to sound brave. He tried to act tough like Dean. But his voice shook, and the sentence came out as a plea rather than a statement of fact. His paltry façade crumbled, and choking on his own terror, he rushed on, "I'm not that special. What do you want the tablet for anyway? Please don't kill me."

The creature moved to the chair arranged opposite and sat, to Kevin's surprise, with a tired groan. "Tell me anything?" she scoffed. "That's fine, because I'm here to tell _you_ something. You can hear things, even if you refuse to talk, right?"

Kevin sputtered. "Your… your voice is different." And it was. The breathy whisper was gone, replaced by a real _human_-like voice. It sounded young. And it was definitely female.

And snarky.

"No point hiding your face if you can't hide your voice," the woman said. Woman? Kevin wasn't sure. Girl might be a better description. If he could only see her face… "And why would I eat you? That's disgusting. Don't be so stupid."

He leaned forward, his curiosity outgrowing his fear. Now that he'd been assured of at least a few more minutes to live, he had questions. "Who are you?" he asked.

"An old friend of the Winchesters. I never thought… Well, won't they be surprised?" Her hands shifted to the arms of her chair. "Listen carefully, Kevin Tran. They need to find me."

"The Winchesters?"

"Yes."

Kevin shook his head. "Find you where? You're right here. Just walk out and say hi."

"I'm not here. Not really. I'm… I don't know." Something changed. A shift in her posture, a quiver in her last word. Her voice rose, fear pitching her tone. "I don't know where they put me. I don't know where I am. They left me in the dark, and I can't… I can't…"

All Kevin's fears of torture and terror evaporated, and he had to fight his confusion as the woman's control began to slip. "I don't even know your name. Who should I tell the Winchesters to look for?"

Gripping the arms of her chair, the woman gave a full body shudder, and for an instant she really _wasn't_ there.

Seriously. What the hell?

"My name," she gasped. "You have to tell Plutus my name or he won't let you go."

"Right! Your name, what's your name?" Kevin was shouting now.

In her seat, the woman went ominously still. "Tell them. My name. It's…" With a final shudder, she fell apart, dissolving into a rapidly fading rain of light. Kevin threw himself backwards, knocking his chair over in the process, and as he rested there, panting on the floor, the last ghost of her voice echoed through the room. "_Nadine_."

.O.O.O.

Kevin didn't tell the Winchesters. Plutus chose to take his next best offer, and Mrs. Tran stepped up to surrender her soul.

Crowley possessed her.

Dean almost killed her.

The Winchesters saved them.

The Trans decided to try things on their own.

If the story ended there, it would've been fine. But Kevin's life wasn't simple, wasn't easy – not anymore, anyway. It took some time, and they did well on their own, but it all came apart in the end. Funny thing was, Kevin actually thought they could make it. Until, of course, his mother trusted a witch, and the witch squealed to Crowley. It was the same old song, only this time there were no Winchesters to save them. Crowley tortured him, and Kevin gave him what he wanted. And then – Castiel. A guardian angel.

It was a shame Kevin was too far gone to care about divine intervention anymore. He was grateful, of course. But a part of him never escaped Crowley's lair. Maybe it was his innocence. Maybe it was his hope. Whatever it was, it left him numb and open enough to remember something. Something important. A name.

He caught Sam's sleeve as Dean and the angel wandered off. "Hey, uh, there's something I need to tell you."

"Okay." Sam stopped and folded his arms, eyebrows raised, receptive. "Shoot. What's up?"

'At the auction, where my mother tried to sell her soul," Kevin said. "Remember the girl in black?"

Sam blinked and shifted his weight. "Not entirely sure it was a girl, but… yeah. You spoke with her and she… vanished? Your mom won by default. What does it matter?"

"She had a message for you."

Now, he could tell, he had Sam's attention. "What message?"

"She wanted me to tell you her name."

Sam parroted him. "Her name?"

Kevin shrugged. "I don't know why. But before she… disappeared… she said you needed to find her."

"What was her name?"

"Nadine."

The name clearly made an impression on the younger Winchester.

"Kevin," he said slowly. "You need to tell me everything. Right now."

.O.O.O.

It all made sense. The horrible dreams he'd been having, that constant sense that he was missing something, all of it. Sam remembered his most recent nightmare and shivered.

In the dream, there was a canoe. Was it a canoe? It was a boat, and it was long and narrow. There was no motor. There were no oars, either, for that matter. Laid out in the bottom was Nadine, asleep or dead, with her hands folded across her stomach and her hair haloing her head in perfect curls. She was in a dress, as she often was, but it was nothing from the current century – nothing from the several preceding centuries, either. She looked like the Lady of Shallot from that Waterhouse painting. Except she wasn't sitting up, she was just lying there, like this was her funeral barge.

That thought crossed his mind, and her eyes flew open. They were too wide, straining even wider, filled with terror. She opened her mouth to scream, and flames came leaping out, pouring over her perfect curls and her long dress and the narrow boat. They all burned and gradually fell into the hungry water. The still surface closed over her like glass, and she sank into the dark.

It had been a terrible dream, but now he understood.

Sam strolled up to Cas and his brother, confused, eager to move on, anxious. His lips formed the necessary explanations as they wrapped up the mission and prepared for their new quest. But his mind was somewhere else entirely. _Nadine_. Alive – somewhere. He had to tell Dean. Should he tell Cas?

The angel forgot himself in the middle of a sentence.

Perhaps not. Their old friend had gone through enough trauma recently without having that particular wound reopened. Eventually he'd have to know, but until that time, Sam preferred to keep things between himself and Dean.

"…I'm with you," Cas was saying. "If that's alright."

Cas walked off, and Sam squinted at his brother. "Well, it is, right? You two are good?"

"Yeah."

"Well… good," he swallowed and Dean gave him a _look_ from the corner of his eye. Sam considered himself an accomplished liar, but his brother could read him like a book. "Because I have something important to tell you."

"Yeah?" Dean was looking for a distraction, it seemed, and he gave Sam his full attention. "About what?"

"It's something Kevin told me," Sam said, eyes flicking back to where he'd spoken with the prophet. "It's about the woman that won the bidding at the auction."

Dean frowned. Shrugged. "Yeah. I remember. So what?"

"She gave him her name." Sam's hands were buried deep in his pockets, and he could feel his head tilting to the side in a wince. Why did he always do this when he had something bad to tell? Why was he worried Dean would take this as bad news?

"Well?" Dean asked. His patience with his brother's squirming was reaching its end. "What was it? And why should I care?"

"Dean…" One last breath. "She said her name was Nadine."

The effect was instantaneous.

"No way," Dean said, taking a half step back. He firmed his stance and shook his head. But then he stopped again and considered. When he looked up at Sam, there's a terrible spark of hope in his eyes. "Did she say anything else?"

"She wants us to find her," Sam said.

"And… what? Did she say where? Give Kevin a map? Directions? A general area? A continent? Anything?"

"Nothing. He said she just… fell apart. Vanished."

Dean groaned and scrubbed his face with his palms. "Great. Now what?"

"I'll see what I can find," Sam suggested. "But the tablet needs our attention."

"Can we do both?"

Sam shrugged. "We can try." Glancing toward the car, he lowered his voice. "Do we tell Cas?"

Apparently, Dean shared his opinions. "No. Not until we have to."

"Alright." They stood in silence for a moment, and Sam realized a smile was trying to flicker to life over his face. "Dean, she's still _alive_."

"Yeah." An answering flicker darted over his brother's face. Shaking his head, he looked at his feet. "Good on you, Goggles."

.O.O.O.

Dean couldn't help his growing sense of hope. Cas came back from Purgatory. Nadine could come back from Tir na nÓg. Maybe she already was. All he had to do was find her, and then they could fix all the shit that got broken in the past year and a half. Everything was complicated as shit, and he couldn't fool himself into thinking these few rays of sunshine would change the mess that was his life, but _damn_, a sunny day every once in a while was nice.

He couldn't help wondering… was she responsible for the dream he'd been having?

It was a quiet dream. He was in Bobby's house, back in Sioux Falls, and everything was as it should be – as it was, before it burned to the ground. Nadine's message box was sitting on the table in the entry way, the keyhole gleaming. His hands followed the old pattern, far ahead of his thoughts, which were still befuddled with the remembrance of things long gone. One palm settled flat against the lid, and the fingers of the other closed around the little drawer handle. It slid open as smooth as always, and the message light winked, blinked, and flickered out.

There was no message in the drawer. Maybe it was just stuck in the back. He wanted to see her sloppily elegant handwriting again, wanted one last message, so he jammed his fingers into the drawer, prying to the back of the box. They came out wet. In the weak moonlight they appeared black, but he knew they were red. That was blood on his fingers. It was swelling out of the drawer, now, rising in shiny bubbles and dribbling down the sides, pattering onto the table, gathering in a lake, and then seeping off the edge of the table in a morbid waterfall.

It licked the edge of his shoes, so he took a step back. But there was just so much blood, and it wouldn't stop. It just kept pouring out, an awful lurid message.

It wasn't a pleasant memory, and he tossed his bag on the squeaky motel bed with a little more force than necessary. Cas – the unexpected third to their duo – passed him as he wandered into the room and cast the bag a thoughtful frown. The angel didn't comment, but Dean could feel the question hanging in the air. He ignored it and yanked open the zipper. There were salt lines to be drawn. Castiel glanced at Sam as the younger Winchester unpacked his own duffel bag, and Dean saw the angel tense out of the corner of his eye.

"Cas?" Memories of purgatory were too fresh. Instinct demanded he search out the threat, whatever had so shocked the unflappable angel, and deal with it. Few things could get a rise out of Cas, and Dean was pretty sure he'd have noticed if there were strippers in the room. But then he followed the angel's line of sight, and he saw the goggles in Sam's hand. "Oh." Now it was just awkward. Painfully awkward.

Sam blanched a little and his eyes went wide as he realized what the keepsake meant to the angel. While Dean was grateful his baby brother hadn't thrown the last of Nadine's possessions into the trash when he was in purgatory, he wished he'd thought things through before carting them around. Why were they out of the trunk, anyway?

"I thought we might… sometimes it's a good idea to check," Sam said, fumbling for words. "They work. You can see through fey glamour with them."

Castiel's shoulders slumped. "That's true, but I doubt the Courts have any interest in the two of you now that Nadine has been reclaimed."

Sam tried to shoot his brother a discrete glare. Was if fair to let the angel beat himself up while Sam and Dean basked in the bright light of hope? _Yes_, a darker side of Dean said. It was perfectly fair. The bastard's dumb-ass plan was the reason she was taken in the first place. But a larger part of him, the part still celebrating his friend's incredible return from purgatory, wanted to help clear the angel's conscience. There was plenty to atone for, but maybe he needed this little bit of encouragement, this small sign that the world, that _they_, could recover from the mistakes of the past.

Castiel caught the look the brothers exchanged, and his face scrunched into a frown. "What is it?" He glanced between them, and Sam immediately diverted his attention back to the goggles he was still clutching. As the frown gave way to helpless confusion, the angel turned to Dean. "Dean?"

It was a struggle to bring the words up. He was so tempted to brush it off as nothing and just carry on as usual. But… if he was Cas, he'd want to know. "Nadine isn't dead."

The news struck Castiel like a thunderbolt. He straightened and faltered at the same time, tilting back like he'd been struck.

"We think she may have escaped Tir na nÓg," Sam added.

"I-" Castiel looked from brother to brother, seeking clarification and confirmation in their faces. "I don't understand. Why would the Courts…?"

"Don't know," Dean said. "Don't even know she's here."

"But she helped us." Sam was rushing. His eyebrows were raised, his eyes wide. He was trying to help. He also, it seemed, wanted to fix this little bit of their lives. "There was an auction – Dean filled you in on that, right? – she was there."

The frown grew over the angel's face again. "I don't remember that part of the story."

"We didn't know it was her." Dean couldn't help smiling. "Clever little brat disguised herself. She was the woman in black. She won the auction."

"But then she disappeared." Castiel shook his head. "I still do not understand. The way it was described to me… her manner of leaving didn't sound like her usual… method… at all."

Dean held out his arms in a wide shrug. "Your guess is as good as ours. But she's back. Don't know how she knew to…" And then it hit him. He looked at Sam. "Son of a bitch."

Sam blinked. "What?"

"I figured it out." Dean patted his pockets, groping through denim and flannel in a graceless, frantic search. "I know how she knew we needed her."

Setting the goggles on the bed, Sam started across the room. "How?"

Dean found what he was looking for and fished it out of his pocket with a victorious grin. "This."

It was the bullet.

Puzzled, the angel squinted at the gleaming shell. "I'm afraid I still do not understand," Cas said.

"It's her token," Dean said, both feeling and sounding proud of himself. "Hold this, say her name, and you've got instant pixie power."

"So you summoned her," Castiel surmised.

When he put it like that… "Yes. Yes, I did."

Sam plucked the bullet from Dean's fingers, choosing to ignore his brother's glare as he scrutinized the faint traces of carvings Nadine had worked into the cheap metal. Whatever she made, she always linked her magic with a personal touch. "But we tried summoning her when she first disappeared." Sam was too absorbed in his train of thought to see the angel cringe, but Dean caught it, and he found himself wondering if they'd made the right decision telling him.

"She must be human-side, then," Dean surmised. "At least that's the only explanation I can think of."

"So…" Sam looked up. "Should we try it?"

"Don't. You. Bloody. Dare."

All three spun to face the voice. Dean reeled. Standing there, large as life, was Balthazar, voted heaven's least likely to succeed and most likely tobe _dead_. He looked very alive to Dean, but as a man who'd gone upstairs, downstairs, and into the cupboard down the hall, maybe he wasn't the best to judge. Apparently the grave just wasn't a cool place to stay anymore.

Winchesters and angel stood staring, caught flatfooted by this latest miracle.

Castiel recovered first. "Balthazar. I thought you were…"

"Dead?" The rogue angel raised his eyebrows and kept them up. The expression gave him an illusory air of vulnerability, of innocent inquiry. "You certainly did your best, didn't you?"

"I…" Castiel's voice faded. He worked his jaw soundlessly for a moment as he struggled to overcome his emotions.

Dean wanted to speak up, but this was a matter between angels. He had his own sack of crap he'd sorted through with Cas. He had to let Balthazar do the same.

"I am sorry, brother."

There had always been a warmth in Balthazar's eyes when he addressed Castiel, a certain softness he never offered the Winchesters. _Trust_, Dean realized. That trust was gone. Balthazar's eyes were cool and hard. They pierced Castiel like weapons, and Dean shuddered to imagine the damage they must be doing.

"Sorry doesn't cut it," Balthazar said. "Not in this case. Not after what you did to Nadine. She's the reason I'm alive, you know. Built me a pretty little toy that I made good use of. I was going to save her. First from you, then from the Hunt. But when I arrived at the cabin it was… vacant." He let his face relax and tucked his hands in his trouser pockets, following an invisible path around the room, ambling as he spoke. "A year and a day I waited." A dry chuckle brushed past his lips. "A year and a bloody day. I tortured a kelpie to within an inch of its life before it told me what I wanted to know."

"And, uh, what – exactly – did you want to know?" Dean asked haltingly.

The angel paused, his feet going still, and Dean regretted opening his big mouth. Balthazar's eyes were like ice when they turned on him. "I needed to know if she'd survived. I needed to know if she'd been returned from Tir na nÓg." He took a deep breath. "She was. I set out to find her prison, and then _you_, you stupid ape, _summoned her_."

"Yeah." Dean couldn't keep the defensiveness out of his tone. It had been bad when Balthazar died, but mostly because it was Cas that killed him. The guy wasn't a particularly loveable ally, and he was trustworthy as Crowley. He didn't like the angel's tone. He didn't like the _implication_ that he'd screwed up. "What about it?"

Balthazar's nostrils flared, and for a second Dean could swear electricity crackled over his skin. The room was charged – literally, it seemed. "You broke her _soul_. She pulled herself apart just to come to your aid, and you were too stupid to even recognize her calls for help."

"Broke her soul?" Well, that was new. Sam lost his soul. Then he got it back. People sold their souls. His soul went to both heaven and hell. But breaking a soul? How as that possible? He glanced at Cas for confirmation and found the angel had gone pale.

"The fey returned her as they were required to," Balthazar said. "She is no longer in Tir na nÓg, but that doesn't mean she's free. They _hid_ her somewhere, and I was looking for her prison when I felt her soul shatter."

"Wait," Sam shifted, trying to process this information with the same confusion as Dean. "You could feel it?"

"Breaking a soul is like splitting an atom," Cas said. His hands were trembling by his side, and his face was _ashy_. "Those who are sensitive to such energy – angels, a number of powerful demons, some monsters – would sense an event of that power. There would have been… echoes."

Dean raised his hand. "Sorry, but I still don't get how I'm responsible. Cas, back me up, here."

Unable to meet Dean's eyes, Cas shifted nervously and studied the floor. "If what you say is true, and Balthazar is correct that she was out of Tir na nÓg when you summoned her… then, yes, I'm afraid it's true."

"Had you summoned her while she was in another realm," Balthazar said, clipping his words into sharp bites, "the summons would have simply failed. A fey token is a unique object, and powerful in its own right, but it can't pull, say, a fey soul from hell back to earth. From Indiana to China, but not between realms."

This was ridiculous. Dean couldn't accept that he'd… It wasn't possible. It didn't even make sense. "Then what did I do wrong?" he demanded. "You keep saying she's here, on earth. She came when I summoned her. How could that break her soul?"

"Because she didn't come," Cas said in a voice so faint it was almost a whisper. "Not all of her."

"A fey prison is wrapped in so much magic and so many wards," Balthazar said, "that it was impossible for her to physically leave. Do you understand? Her body was forced to remain in whatever enchanted hell the Courts tossed her in, but her _soul_, well, how does that saying go? Ah, yes. You can't keep a good girl down."

Sam was sputtering. "So the woman in black – that was her _soul_?" He glanced at Dean. "That was her corporeal soul?"

"A simple explanation, but yes, that was her soul." Balthazar rocked back on his heels and jammed his hands in his pockets. "Just as your human souls can become visible to the living world and affect objects around them, so a fey soul can manifest in a relatively… concrete form. But not for long. And in this case the strain of forcibly tearing the soul from the body, and then having it perform such a feat, shattered it."

Silence fell hard and fast. Dean felt like a rock was in his stomach. His ray of sunshine turned out to be crappy fluorescent lighting after all. In the quiet, Balthazar glanced around and sighed. "Don't you keep any blood alcohol in this dump? I expected more from you Winchesters."

Castiel drew himself up and squared his shoulders. There was new purpose in his eyes, and for a second it hid the fear and self loathing Dean had gotten so used to seeing there. The angel caught Balthazar's gaze and held it. "Why are you here now?"

Smirking, Balthazar tilted his head. "I think you already know, _friend_."

Dean wondered fleetingly if he should get ready for a fight.

"Your pets broke Nadine's soul," Balthazar purred, voice low. "Now I need the help of the only creature to have ever touched it. I need, in fact, someone who hasn't just stroked her pretty soul once, but _twice_." His mouth curled up in a harsh smile. "I need the man with the blueprints to help put Humpty Dumpty together again."

**A/N: Hello? Is this thing on? Okay. If any of you got lost on the tour, please raise your hands. If you slipped in the fish tank and the shark ATE your hands, please see the front desk. **

**Anyone see that coming? Anyone? Bueller? **

**So... I'm sorry. I disappeared. I'd like to blame it on flirty angels, but instead I have a nest of bouncing baby excuses that start with 400+-mile-road-trip-for-a-wedding and end with Khan-ate-my-brain. Both are true. There's also a pair of impertinent plot bunnies who've bitten my backside and left embarrassing dimples. I'm also about to commit any fanfic writer's greatest sin - starting a second fic before finishing the one they're presently working on. At first I was only going to write it for private enjoyment, but then I asked Shrubby-dearest if I should post it and she gave me the thumbs up. So blame her. I'm not expecting the other to do well (It's Star Trek. Remember what I said about Khan? Yeah...), so there should be little threat to the time I spend on this story. I'm getting into the good angsty stuff, and I'm hoping I haven't lost all my readers in the interim. **

**Please review. The voices in my head like the company.**

**Replies:**

**Just Someone: Thank you so much! I'm really thrilled that you like Nadine. I hope you continue to enjoy the story!**

**Ali: Thanks! I'm happy to be back, too. Back... again. I think I need a leash for myself. Thanks again, and I hope you like where the story is going!**


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